Brittany the Vampire Slayer
by BlackShield
Summary: Into every generation she is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one.  The Slayer.  And Santana makes two.  Brittana, side pairings to come.  Not listed as a crossover because no BtVS characters appear.
1. Chosen Two

Standard disclaimers for Glee and BtVS. Revised to include original chapters 1 _and_ 2.

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><p>Brittany swung her foot out, almost catching him in the ribs, slapping against the fabric of a ruined tuxedo jacket. His retaliatory punch rolled slowly off his shoulder and she ducked it easily, sweeping his feet from beneath him and dropping to one knee on his sternum. She saw the fear glowing beneath his bumpy forehead and smiled, then drove the stake in.<p>

Her knee fell to the ground as the corpse turned to ash; she stood up and turned to the _click _of a stopwatch.

"Not bad," Beiste admitted, jaw jutting forward thoughtfully. She wrote something on her clipboard, tucking the stopwatch into the pocket of her shorts.

Brittany walked over, past the headstones. "How fast was I?"

Beiste squinted at her notes in the dark. "3:26."

"That sounds kinda fast," Brittany protested cautiously, brows pushing together in a confused frown.

Beiste shrugged and picked up her bag, walking back toward the high school. Brittany fell into step. "It's not that you're not fast, Brittany," she explained. "It's that I know you can be faster. You gotta be a buffalo in a briar patch, and right now you're a goat in a cornfield, you know what I mean?"

Brittany offered an apologetic shake of the head.

Beiste chuckled and mussed Brittany's hair, pulling some from her ponytail. "You're a good kid, Pierce. I'm glad I got assigned to you."

Brittany smoothed her hair thoughtfully. "Is Coach Sue a vampire?"

Beiste faltered in surprise. "What? No." Her eyes narrowed slightly; she seemed to consider it. She glanced at Brittany sidelong. "Do you think she is?"

Brittany looked ahead, navigating the last gravestones as they neared the gate. "I just thought, if I was gonna have a Watcher, I would think it'd be her, but it's you," she said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "I thought maybe that was the reason."

Brittany vaulted over the fence. She felt Beiste's appreciative gaze as they fiddled with the latch on the gate. Once Beiste was through, she closed the gate behind her and they walked along the sidewalk. "I'm not sure what to tell you, kid," Beiste finally said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Monster huntin's been in my family for generations. Watchers, they're generally Brits, but there ain't many of them in Ohio."

Brittany frowned. "But—I'm a Britt…" She knew she was missing something, and she watched Beiste's face for the answer.

Her Watcher grinned and chuckled. "Nah, a Brit like from Britain," she clarified. "But I got buddies in the Council who know I know what I'm talkin' about, and they offered me the gig after a four-week training sesh."

Brittany considered this, nodding. There was a long silence. She could see the high school past Durbick Street. She swallowed the nervousness in her throat and asked, quietly, "How come I didn't have a Watcher for so long?"

Beiste studied the sidewalk and her sneakers, apparently planning her answer. "I gotta be honest, Pierce: they didn't tell me." Noticing Brittany's gaze drop in disappointment, she hastily continued. "They didn't tell me much about your previous situation—just that it didn't turn out like you hoped."

Brittany was quiet, studying the familiar houses. They passed Durbick, now close to the school. "I got him killed," she whispered. It hurt to force the words through her throat.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her. She looked up to find Beiste studying her seriously. "Listen, Brittany. You did the right thing. You're alive." When Brittany said nothing, Beiste sighed, relaxing her grip. "You don't have to tell me what happened, but I'm here if you want to," she finally suggested. She glanced toward the school. "I can put your stuff back in the office if you wanna take off."

Brittany cleared her throat and nodded. She watched Beiste until she got onto school grounds.

The night was still. At midnight on a Tuesday at the end of summer, Lima, Ohio was silent as the grave. Brittany took a deep gulp of the cool air. Her blood had slowed since taking that vampire down. In three and a half minutes.

She chewed her lip, turning to look back toward the cemetery. Her parents and sister would already be asleep. She had already snuck out.

The Bronze crossed her mind. She knew Quinn would probably be there. But she felt frozen. Without realizing it, her thoughts traced back to English in the spring. They'd read about that woman, Megara or Mascara or something, who turned people to stone with a single look. She felt like that.

She felt goosebumps rising on her bare legs. Glancing down at her running shorts, she realized someone was watching her. Slowly, she raised her head, then whirled around.

Nothing. The world was frozen, like her. Not even a breeze shifted the bushes lining the sidewalk.

Unable to shake the feeling, coiling into hard truth in the pit of her stomach, she fell into a decision her body had made several minutes ago. She turned on her heel and jogged back to the cemetery.

Though she'd just patrolled with Beiste, Brittany hoped there were more vamps left. She scanned the turf and headstones. The night was cool, but muggy; the wind was still as dead as the bodies below her, making it easy to pick out movement. A shadow behind the mausoleum.

The edge of her lips twitched into a half-smile. She strode silently toward the structure, her gym shoes silent in the soft mud and damp grass. She extracted the stake from where it was tucked in the back of her waistband.

A yell. Guttural. Animal. Vicious.

Brittany leapt around the corner, stake raised, and watched a dark blur wrestle a vampire to the ground. So close and so fast, Brittany could see the dirt-stained suit of the vamp, a wave of dark hair, and a flash of a stake before a cloud of dust settled before her and this whirlwind stranger.

Brittany cleared her throat and the tornado's head turned toward her. Dark hair and dark eyes. Suspicious eyes. Brittany blinked as she realized she still held the stake poised to puncture.

Bashfully, she dropped her arm and blushed. "Um, hi," she managed to utter around the cotton in her mouth. Those eyes.

"Who're you supposed to be?" The harshness surprised her. This was the voice. The battle cry.

"Brittany," she stammered. She forced the words around her teeth and through her lips. The hurricane was looking her up and down and she suddenly felt childish in her shorts and Cheerios t-shirt. Whirling dervish wore a black tank top and black skinny jeans, like she meant business. "Brittany," she repeated. "I'm—" She stopped herself, wondering if she could safely say _the vampire slayer_ to someone who had just slain a vampire. "Are you okay?"

Cyclone pursed her lips, unimpressed. "I'm fine, Brittany Brittany." Her brows crushed together. "You're not Brittany Pierce, are you?"

Brittany felt the air leave her lungs. She forced in a deep breath and tucked her stake in the back of her shorts. "How did you know that?" she asked, voice breathy and quiet. She struggled to mimic Coach Sue's authoritative tone, but it only thinly veiled the wonder underneath: "Who are you?"

The typhoon's lips quirked upward. "You're famous, Britts. You're the freakin' vampire slayer." She gestured with the wicked stake in her hand. "And so am I."

* * *

><p>Brittany blinked. "What?"<p>

"I'm the other one." A shaped eyebrow arched. "Don't tell me you didn't know there's another Slayer in this town."

Brittany's eyes drifted, following the curve of the stranger's muscled shoulder. The air, tolerable moments before, felt sticky and hot. "I didn't," she answered softly.

The thunderstorm seemed surprised by the honest answer. Brittany caught the glint of hard eyes softening under the moonlight. "Oh," came the voice, low and lovely. "They told me you were coming, I just…" Brittany traced her way back to the girl's face. Muscles twitched near her ears, forcing words into order. "I figured they'd tell you about me." Brittany could sense something else in the words, something coiled in the spaces between them, but before she could digest it, gale wind offered a hand. "My name's Santana."

Brittany was stunned. "You—you know Quinn," she blurted. Santana blinked, clearly taken aback, and her hand wavered in the air.

"I do," she said slowly. Her arm drew back when Brittany made no move to shake. Her fingers hooked on the edge of her pocket. "How do you know her?"

Brittany watched Santana's face. "Cheerios camp." Recognition filtered through Santana's dark eyes. Brittany vaguely realized she had never held eye contact with anyone for quite this long before. "She mentioned your name. You're on Cheerios too, right?"

Santana nodded, her movements fluid again. She seemed to have gotten past her surprise at needing an introduction. "Yeah, I was just at my dad's all summer," she explained casually.

Her words echoed Quinn's from June. Brittany nodded, asking, "He lives in Cleveland or something, right?"

Santana's eyelid twitched, just slightly. Brittany felt her cheeks flushing lightly under such attentive scrutiny. She hoped the moonlight hid it. "How'd you know that?" Santana said. The words were like a mousetrap clicking into place.

"Quinn," she said, as if it were obvious. Santana seemed to realize that it was, and laughed.

Brittany breathed out in a gush, smiling. The tornado had a beautiful laugh. Santana stepped forward, finally breaking their frozen standoff to touch Brittany on the shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "Of course," she said. "I'm an idiot."

Brittany wanted to protest—_No, you're not, you're not that at all_—but the words seemed to leach into Santana's hand, warm and firm on her shoulder. She chewed the inside of her cheek, allowing Santana to guide her among the graves toward the western gate. "Did you just get back?" she asked.

Santana nodded, looking ahead of them. "A couple hours ago. I unpacked and headed here," she said with a small smile. Brittany studied the curl at the corner—like it was twisted around some secret meaning—and almost tripped on a tree root gnarled near a flat stone.

Santana seemed not to notice, but Brittany covered by asking, "First thing you wanted to do was patrol?"

Dark eyes trapped hers. Santana smirked. "'Patrol'? I came to kick vamp ass, and look hot doing it."

Brittany felt her blush bubbling up again. "I just meant—you didn't want to see your mom?" Santana's face clouded over and Brittany quickly added, "Or Quinn or anybody?" She wet her lips, trying nervously to dissipate her apparent mistake. "Puck?"

Santana snorted and looked away. Her fingers slipped away from Brittany's shoulder, finally, and Brittany found she missed the tense grip. "Why the fuck would I want to see him?" Santana chided.

Brittany realized she must have misinterpreted something. "Quinn said you were—" She struggled to recall the word. "She said you two were…"

"We are," Santana cut her off mercifully. "But that doesn't mean Mohawk's the first thing I wanna see."

"You'd rather see _Dawn of the Dead_?" Brittany asked, cringing when she realized she had already settled into familiar banter. She and Santana weren't _familiar_. They had just met.

Those eyes. Embarrassed, Brittany glanced down. Santana's lips had parted in surprise. Brittany found her eyes caught on them—on the flash of white teeth she could barely glimpse, on the sound of Santana's sharp breath in the muggy summer air. A smile tugged across Santana's face and Brittany swallowed her relief. "Touché, Britt-Britt." A nickname. Why did it feel right?

They were near the fence when Santana spun around, pushing Brittany behind her in an instinctive—protective?—gesture. Hurricane's fist coiled around the stake and Brittany squinted over Santana's shoulder at a figure in a black hoodie. She was about to tell Santana to stop—to touch her arm and explain that it was a kid, not a vampire—when she saw the ridged brows jutting past the hood's shadow.

Santana was gone. Brittany blinked and sprinted after her. She caught up when, several yards away, Santana dove at the vamp like a swimmer diving into a pool—or maybe more like a bolt of lightning—and pinned him between her knees against the grass. When the corpse turned to dust beneath the wooden point, Santana sat back on her heels and examined a small metal plate, cradled in her palm. Brittany eyed it curiously and offered her hand to sandstorm. "What's that?"

Santana shrugged, letting Brittany pull her upright. "Dunno," she said, turning the piece over in one hand and tucking her stake into her back pocket. "It was in his hand."

Brittany reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the medallion and the crease of Santana's palm, and glanced into Santana's dark whirlpools as she asked, "Can I see?" Santana tipped her hand in wordless assent and Brittany caught the coin gently. She looked at strange markings, brushing them with her thumb, and suddenly realized how close she was to the tornado, quieter at a standstill but never just a girl.

Brittany wet her lips. "We should show Coach Beiste," she said. To Santana's curious frown, she added, "My Watcher."

A shadow passed Santana's face, aligning her eyebrows straighter above her dark eyes. "Oh," she said. "Yeah." Santana looked up at the moon, high overhead. She turned abruptly and began walking back toward the fence. "It can wait 'til tomorrow, though."

Brittany jogged after her, closing her fist around the medallion. "It is late," she acknowledged. "And she already left."

"She was here?"

They had reached the fence at a middle section. "We were training." Brittany glanced at the gate, several yards away, but before she could walk that way, Santana gripped the top crossbar and flipped over the fence's pikes. Brittany gaped in surprise—maybe because she was used to Beiste, but maybe because she was seeing the tornado again, all whipping black hair and tight pants.

Santana stood on the other side, watching her expectantly. "You need the gate?" Brittany realized she had stood still too long. "I thought you were a Slayer. _In training_," she added, pointedly.

Brittany forced a smile, but it didn't look as confident as she wanted it to. "No, it's just—gonna be hard to get used to you."

It wasn't what she had intended to say, but the words tasted right, so she let them hang as she darted at the fence. The ball of her foot pressed the grass; her torso twisted; two hands gripped one iron spire; her legs curved over the top like pole vaulting and she landed in a crouch. Her legs straightened easily, like a spring uncoiled. She adjusted the stake in the elastic band of her shorts and felt Santana's eyes. She looked up into the hurricane and enjoyed the expression from minutes before—eyes a little too wide, mouth not quite closed.

A grin tore across Brittany's face. "What?"

Santana regarded her, eyes flickering down from Brittany's face and back up again. "Impressive," she admitted, her glance darting back to the muscles of Brittany's exposed legs.

Brittany felt her cheeks warm. "Where are we going?" she asked, walking to where Santana stood.

Santana paused a second too long. "Have you been to the Bronze?" she asked. Brittany nodded. Santana smiled again, a half-smile this time. She plucked the medallion from Brittany's hands and tucked it into her back pocket, then looped her arm around Brittany's waist. Her steps guided them toward town. "Sweet, let's go. I wanna gets my dance on."

Her hand rested lightly on Brittany's hip, and Brittany folded her arms across her stomach carefully. She knew if she brushed those fingers, they'd curl away, and she didn't want them to.

The thought interested her. To cover the tickle of uncertainty spreading from Santana's fingertips, Brittany murmured, "I love dancing."

Santana shrugged. "Explains your moves."

Brittany grinned too wide. She forced it into a smaller smile, one that wouldn't split her face in half. "Like you said," she suggested, "I'm a Slayer."

"I got Slayer moves, and I ain't got moves like _that_," Santana said appreciatively, poking Brittany's elbow.

Brittany hoped the dim light still hid her blush. "Thanks," she said, her tone more serious and honest than intended.

She glanced left, and those soft brown eyes stared back. Swallowing her. "You're welcome," Santana said. Her voice was quiet, but in a way it sounded like that raspy cry from before—full of emotions, too full to pick them all out.

Brittany wished she could pick them all out.


	2. Whispers

Standard disclaimers. Santana's "hungry and horny" line was originally Faith's in BtVS.

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><p>They neared the Bronze. Santana's hand dropped from Brittany's side and dipped into the pocket of her jeans. Brittany watched her fingers worm between tight layers of fabric to pull out a thin black phone. She could see the time on the display: 12:52AM. At the bottom, a box announced a text from <em>Puckerman<em>. When Santana opened the text—_u back yet? cum over_—Brittany made a show of looking away, but she snuck a peek as Santana's thumbs flew across the keys: _not tonite 2 tired_. Santana stuck the phone back into her pocket and glanced at Brittany with a smile that might have been reassuring.

"Is it too late?" Brittany asked. She began to ask if Santana's mother would want her home, but remembered that word had snapped their tenuous connection earlier. Instead, she added needlessly, "My cat is covering for me, so I can stay out."

Santana's eyes narrowed slightly and she searched Brittany's face for—something. Brittany watched her calmly until Santana finally replied, "Nah, night's young." She turned to face the door they were fast approaching. Brittany considered asking about Puck—if she wasn't tired, why lie?—but didn't want to reveal her spying.

Santana led her past the bouncer—a mountain of a man, football player type, who nodded at Santana with a leer and let them in—and over toward the bar. Brittany spotted Quinn, talking to her too-tall boyfriend, and touched Santana's elbow, gesturing in their direction. "Should we go say hi?"

With a shrug, Santana glanced toward the bar. "I wanna get some food," she said, not really answering the question. Brittany looked conflicted. Santana sighed, but smiled in defeat. "Okay, we'll say hi."

She let Brittany tug her through the crowd—Brittany took her wrist gently, then linked their pinkies together—and they pulled up at the small table next to Quinn and boyfriend. Quinn turned and smiled. "Brittany," she greeted. Her eyes widened when they lit on Santana and she leapt off her seat to throw her arms around Santana's neck. "Santana!"

Brittany smiled as Santana rolled her eyes. Tall boyfriend—he had an odd name, Brittany remembered, something like Frodo or Flipper—had a lopsided smirk and a half-wave at the ready, echoing, "Santana," with less enthusiasm. He curled his fingers in greeting to Brittany, who waved with a pinkie.

Santana squirmed in Quinn's arms and Quinn hopped back onto her seat, gesturing toward the two empty chairs at the small table. "Join us," she ordered pleasantly.

Brittany tried to remember seeing Quinn this excited; it had probably been July, that one time Coach Sue said their pyramid resembled a trapezoid and that the squad should leave early before they were forced to do wind sprints in geometric shapes.

"How was Cleveland?" Quinn pressed Santana as Brittany settled into a chair.

Santana hovered near the empty seat, bracing her palms on the table while her eyes scanned the dance floor. "Sucked," she replied, sounding bored. "I hate Cleveland as much as I hate working for my dad."

Brittany noticed the skin on Santana's temple shift. Her teeth were clenched. This wasn't the same scowl Santana's mother earned. "What do you do for your dad?" she asked carefully.

Santana's eyes snapped to hers. Brittany felt the impulse to gulp, but for some reason the tension between them froze her in place, pulled into the dark vortex.

Quinn didn't notice. "Secretary, right?"

"Yeah." Santana ripped the cord between them to glance at Quinn. "Same shit as last year."

"At least you weren't in Lima," fish boy offered, a bit too optimistically.

Brittany glanced at Santana. Her jaw was still tensed, but she appeared to relax somewhat. "True. How was your summer, Gumby? Still stretching out, I see."

Brittany sucked her lips into her mouth to keep from grinning; she could see Quinn's face turn in on itself in displeasure, a bit like Santana's when her mother came up. Before Quinn could snap back, Flounder shrugged, apparently used to the behavior. "Coach Beiste is whipping us into shape. She's real good—I think we might win something this year."

Santana nodded, eyes back on the dance floor. Quinn seemed to realize something. "Wait, how come you two're here together?"

Brittany blinked in panic, but Santana chuckled in that voice and said, "I ran into her on the way here; that Cheerios shirt gave us something to talk about."

So easy. Brittany would have blown their cover for sure. She glanced sideways at Santana, barely noticing when Quinn smiled at her. "You do look a bit underdressed, Brittany." Her tone was light; teasing.

Brittany managed an embarrassed smile. "I had dance class after practice, but I forgot some stuff in my locker and I had to go back," she said, trying to measure up to Santana's glib line. "Then I ran into Santana and we came here."

Quinn caught Santana's eye and they smiled. "Good idea," Quinn said, tone genuine. "I'm glad you're here."

"You and me both," Santana replied. Her tone was tinted apologetic—maybe for her quip about the boyfriend. She clapped her palms onto the table, breaking the moment. "I was gonna eat, but I think I'd rather dance."

Brittany perked up at the suggestion, but looked at Quinn and Fritz uncertainly. "Can we?"

Quinn smiled at her, but shot Friedrich a look of disappointment. "Finn's not that comfortable dancing," she said. "You two go."

Brittany opened her mouth to apologize, wondering how she'd gone all summer without learning Quinn's boyfriend couldn't dance—or his actual name—when she felt a hand curl around her bicep. She looked up at Santana. In the dim light, she could see Santana's cheekbones, her eyebrow arched just slightly, a glint in her dark eyes—still unreadable. Santana leaned closer than she needed to and whispered, breath hot on Brittany's ear, "C'mon, blondie. Let's dance."

The beat was slower than she wanted, but it flowed, linking each motion to the next, threading her through the crowd behind Santana. Santana moved cautiously once they found a space, testing the waters, but once Brittany started, Santana followed her lead.

Here, Brittany could keep up.

The song ended loud and soulful, tugging her toward the whirlwind, but Brittany kept her distance, shifting around Santana and forcing her to turn. The band switched songs—now faster, more intense—and Santana, dancing easily but without much energy, let her eyes flicker up to meet Brittany's.

It suddenly felt eerily like her first kill: the lights felt brighter, music softer, time slower. She could feel her body mirror the beat; she felt the muscles in her legs and arms, heard blood pumping in her ears.

All she could see were those eyes.

Without thinking, she twisted her fingers in Santana's top and yanked. She met no resistance. The tornado pushed against her, rolling with her on each note. She saw Santana's hands rest on her hip and the small of her back. She looked up and fell into dark eyes.

Pulled into the hurricane.

She felt as if she should say something, but what? She buried the thought and swallowed the words. Santana seemed to look right into her, eyes piercing until Brittany could feel it in her gut, all the way where there hips pressed together and their thighs touched between notes.

Brittany didn't have words for this—the way they seemed to fit together, the way the music seemed fluid around them, the way Santana didn't feel the need to speak, either.

The last chord broke and Santana separated them a little too quickly. Despite the physical space between them, as Brittany gaped, apology halfway to her lips, Santana kept staring into her eyes. Her chin twitched, holding something in.

What was she saying?

Just as Brittany sensed an answer, Santana looked down, linking their pinkies again with a small smile. It felt almost childish, chaste, after such rawness. Brittany wished she could read that smile; she was certain, suddenly, that it held the secret to this girl, this mystery.

Waiting to be deciphered.

* * *

><p>Santana led her back to the table. "I'm getting food," she announced, interrupting a stilted conversation between Quinn and Finn. "Want anything?"<p>

Quinn shook her head and Finn shrugged, so Brittany offered, "I'll go with you." She couldn't bring herself to let go of Santana's hand.

Santana's smile was all teeth as she whisked her toward the bar. She ordered a large basket of wings, turning to Brittany when the attendant wandered toward the kitchen. "Isn't it funny how slaying just gets you hungry and horny?"

Brittany gaped. Was this Santana's response to the dance? In her struggle to trace the comment back to their tangible connection on the floor, she missed her opening to reply when Santana paid for the wings and led her back toward the table by the pinkie.

Santana dropped into a chair, tossing the food basket on the table in front of her. She propped one foot on the chair's rung and opened the barbeque sauce, testing it with the tip of her finger. Brittany lowered herself into the other chair, unable to look away. Santana licked the sauce and sucked her teeth thoughtfully, then shrugged. She dipped a wing into it and took a bite, turning to Brittany. "Want some?"

Brittany blinked, breaking her trance, and glanced at Quinn and Finn, who were wrapped up in a conversation about school starting. "No, thanks," Brittany answered a little too firmly, trying to imply she didn't agree with Santana's appraisal of slaying's aftershocks. She forced her eyes away from Santana to squint them at Quinn, focusing in on the words as if tracing ripples back to their origin in a pool.

"It's got to be better than freshman year," Quinn was saying. "Besides, you said you're a shoe-in for quarterback."

Finn seemed more nervous than earlier, sipping at his Coca-Cola and protesting, "I just said Beiste had me sign up for a list, I didn't say I'd get it."

"Well, Coach Sylvester said I can probably replace Maggie as captain, since she messed up her knee in June," Quinn countered with a dangerous look, "and a head cheerleader needs a quarterback to date."

Santana jumped in as she dipped another wing in the hot sauce. "Q, you didn't tell me you made captain." Brittany glanced her way; like earlier, she could sense some underlying meaning, something in Santana's tone that didn't make it into the sentence.

Quinn's lips quirked in an overly careful smile. "It was just last week. I figured I'd tell you when you got back."

"Well, congrats, _Quinnita_," Santana replied a bit too gently. The Spanish rolled off her tongue like syrup. Brittany watched her trace a pattern in the sauce with her food before taking a bite, but she looked too long, and Santana's eyes caught hers.

Brittany looked away. "It's too bad about Maggie," she said quietly to a spot on the table.

Quinn and Santana both furrowed their brows. Quinn looked surprised; Santana looked confused. Brittany turned to Finn, wondering if she'd said something wrong, but he wore a sad half-smile and agreed sympathetically. "Yeah, she was nice."

Quinn snapped, "Not that nice, Finn." Brittany could hear the jealousy in her voice.

Santana chuckled. "Relax, Q," she chided. "As long as you're on top, who cares if she's nice? All she's got this year without a knee is the chest hair club."

Brittany frowned, turning to Quinn. "There's a chest hair club?" she asked.

"She means chess club," Quinn explained, rolling her eyes, like she had a special tone of voice for explaining Santana. "Speaking of, did you talk to Sue about the last week of camp?" She turned back to Santana. "If she kicks you off Cheerios, you might have to play some chess yourself."

Santana almost coughed up her last wing. "Of course I talked to her," she snapped with a shudder. "I'm coming tomorrow. Like I'm gonna walk around McKinley without a Cheerios uniform."

Quinn was silent. It only emphasized the gravity of their agreement: McKinley would be hard to bear without the armor of Cheerios gear. After a minute or so, Santana stood, a bit abruptly. "I'm gonna head back, I think. We've milked this party for all it's worth."

"I didn't see any milk," Brittany mentioned, looking up at Santana.

Santana's eyes flicked over her face. She shook her head. "You need a ride home, Britt?"

Brittany started to say no but found herself saying yes. Santana bade Quinn and Finn goodbye and led Brittany back outside.

* * *

><p>Santana's pace seemed slow. After several minutes' silence, Brittany asked, "Where are we going?"<p>

Santana glanced at her. "Where do you wanna go?" Her voice matched her eyes. Dark. Dangerous.

Brittany swallowed. "We have Cheerios early," she pointed out slowly, gauging Santana's reaction.

Brittany was slow with most things, except dance—but as she studied Santana's expression, it struck her that she was already getting better at reading even subtle changes. She imagined this was what Spanish class would be like if she could remember what the words meant. The faint twitch at Santana's jaw. Her hair shifting as her left ear raised. The tension around her eyes and at her temple. The eyes pinned to her.

Santana was trying to read her. Brittany realized it just as the whirlwind turned away. "My car's by the cemetery," Santana said and shrugged one shoulder. "I can drive you home if you want."

_If you want_. Brittany watched Santana in profile. What did Santana want? "Do you have to get home?" she asked, trying to draw something out. Like leaving bread for the ducks at the park.

"No." Santana didn't turn. Her dark eyes scanned the landscape. Brittany could see them analyzing each shadow and shifting leaf. When Brittany didn't answer, Santana's gaze eventually came around, studying Brittany's messy ponytail and watchful eyes. "Where do you live?" she finally asked.

"I live on Parson," Brittany answered. It had taken her all summer to get used to saying it. "I think it's up that way, but I'm never sure."

Santana smiled at her. Brittany mirrored it. "Good thing I'm here, then," Santana said, voice a little too soft, carrying across the still air.

Brittany blushed and looked down to avoid agreeing too eagerly. "Yeah," she said distantly, as an afterthought. She checked the time on her phone. 1:24AM. She wondered if her mother would be waiting up.

She glanced up, feeling Santana's laser eyes on her hands. Santana studied her. "I can just walk you home," she said. The words were gentle but her look was hard. Brittany felt the hairs rise on her neck; she wondered if Santana could read her better, if she was already fluent in _Brittany_. The way those eyes looked into her felt like she had to be behind the curve.

"That'd be nice," she finally admitted. "Cheerios starts pretty early."

Santana smiled and looked away. Their silent conversation had been replaced with a lighter verbal one. Brittany wasn't sure which she liked more, but at least she could construct her responses when they were out loud.

Santana steered them around a corner. "Did you cheer at your old school?"

Brittany nodded. "But it was nothing like this." She glanced at the shadow of McKinley High, peering over the tops of the ranch houses and small trees. "Coach Sue is really intense."

"You get used to her." Santana looked at her with what was probably supposed to be sympathy, but Brittany could see there was more. More of—something. But what?

"I really like cheerleading, so it's okay," Brittany said. "Plus," she began, then hesitated.

Santana looked at her. "What?" she prodded, tilting her head just slightly.

Brittany chewed her lip. "Well, my Watcher says it keeps me in shape, since it's more like gymnastics than regular cheerleading." She squinted at Santana's face as she said _Watcher_.

She could read no response. Santana just nodded, agreeing, "Yeah, tomorrow's gonna be brutal after taking the summer off."

Brittany took a chance. "Slaying probably kept you in shape, though." She couldn't help looking Santana over. Strong and lean. She could see the muscles in Santana's legs through her tight jeans. The shadows along her arms.

When she found Santana's face again, the tornado was smirking at her. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks again. Santana let it pass, which was almost more embarrassing. "Yeah, for the most part," she admitted. "But Sue's a more gruesome workout than any vamp, and she gets up a hell of a lot earlier."

Brittany nodded. After a moment, she drew back to the question she'd hoped Santana would pick up on. "Do you have a Watcher?"

She could see immediately that Santana had caught it earlier and chosen to ignore it. Now her jaw shifted and her eyes darted to Brittany and then back to the landscape. She was agitated. "Sorta," she said, but it sounded more like a grunt.

Brittany wasn't sure if she should press it, but it was late, and they were alone, and who knew when they'd be alone again? "Coach Beiste said Watchers are there to help us," she offered. Like feeding the ducks. Putting crumbs out on your palm.

Santana didn't reply for a moment. She sighed. "I don't really talk to mine anymore," she muttered. It sounded like a confession underneath the bitterness.

Brittany bit the inside of her cheek. She glanced at Santana's hand, swinging between them. She swallowed and linked her pinkie with Santana's. Laser eyes flashed to their entwined fingers, then to Brittany's face as she gently suggested, "Maybe we could get Coach Beiste to be your Watcher, too."

Santana's sharp look dulled. After a second, a smile fought its way to the surface. Brittany returned it, swinging their hands a little. Santana shook her head, glancing back down. Her train of thought seemed to derail at their linked fingers. "What's up with the pinkies?" she asked suddenly.

Brittany pushed her brows together. "Well, I—" She hesitated. I didn't think you'd let me hold your hand? She just shrugged. "I just did it, and then…" She trailed off, glancing at Santana. "Is it okay? I can stop."

Santana smiled, warm like her voice when she laughed or turned Quinn's name into Spanish. "It's very okay, Britt-Britt," she said. She squeezed Brittany's pinkie. "Very okay."


	3. Sun Soaked

Longer chapters means longer waits. Sorry, gang.

* * *

><p>The afternoon sun soaked into Brittany's skin like milk soaking into the last Froot Loops at the bottom of a cereal bowl. Or maybe she just felt soggy after Coach Sue ran them all over town. She squinted in the sunlight at the football boys doing laps. Between Brittany and the track, Quinn reached toward her toes without conviction, neck craned back to watch Finn jog ahead of the pack. Brittany could see a few Cheerio stragglers wiping their faces with towels and walking toward the parking lot with sore, slow steps.<p>

Brittany turned and almost ran into Santana. The darkness of Santana's eyes stood out from the sun on the field and her red-and-white uniform. Santana's voice buzzed in her ears, but she couldn't pick out the words. "What?" Brittany asked. The world felt far away somehow.

"Do you want help stretching?" Santana repeated, giving Brittany the searching look she brought out whenever Brittany seemed out of it or said something about sea turtles or her cat picking up smoking again.

Brittany smiled and nodded. Before she could ask which stretch or who should go first, Santana turned her by the shoulder and clasped her wrists. Brittany absently wondered if Santana could feel her pulse quicken. Santana pulled Brittany's arms up and behind, until her knuckles brushed together; the muscles of her arms and chest pulled flat against her bones, and Brittany let out a soft sigh.

She could feel Santana's laser eyes at the back of her head; the base of her neck. She wondered what Santana was looking for. She seemed to look all the time. Brittany imagined that must be frustrating, to keep looking for something you couldn't find, when it struck her that it was probably a lot like what she did, trying to learn to read Santana's expressions.

A face like a book in another language. Like that cartoon they'd watched in Spanish class. She could almost make sense of it.

She felt Santana's grip slacken and let her arms swing forward. She twisted to look at Santana, still outlined in the hot sun. "Want me to do you?" Brittany offered.

Santana's eyes searched her face. Brittany tried to think what else her words could mean, but before she got far, Santana nodded mutely and turned. Brittany watched and slid her fingers around Santana's wrists.

Her skin was just as warm as Brittany's, soaking up sun all day. Brittany watched her hands around Santana's wrists as she pulled gently backward. Santana's skin was dark next to Brittany's late summer tan. She held Santana's hands together and, just faintly, heard Santana release a breath into the August heat.

She noticed a bead of sweat netted at Santana's hairline, where loosened strands sloped up into her high ponytail. She swallowed, eyes tracing along Santana's back. Sweat and crisp tailoring stuck the polyester Cheerios top to the muscles bunching at her shoulders and along her spine.

Santana's hands twitched and Brittany dropped them like they were on fire. "Sorry," she stammered. Her voice came out low, like a murmur.

Santana turned, eyes searching Brittany's face. Brittany distantly wondered if she should name this expression, this look that said nothing and still screamed, _What are you thinking about?_

She blinked. Santana had said that aloud. "Nothing," she blurted. "I think the sun fried my brain." She tapped her temple to illustrate. "Like an egg."

Santana's suspicion melted into a gentle smile. Last night, Santana was a ghost, a windstorm, but today she was so real. Warm and dark and real. She'd walked across the field in the early sunlight like she was walking out of a dream and into reality. Maybe it was the sun—it didn't mask Brittany the way the darkness had—but today being close to the tornado made Brittany dizzy and dazed.

"Let's get you inside, then," Santana suggested, chuckling. She linked her pinkie with Brittany's, as if they'd been doing it for years. As if they'd been doing it forever. Santana turned her head toward Quinn, who now watched the football players with her hands on her hips and without the pretense of stretching. Santana cupped her mouth with her free hand and called, "Quinn, we're gonna go clean up."

Quinn spared them a glance and waved them toward the gym doors, turning back to survey her boyfriend's performance. "She looks worried," Brittany observed as they walked across the dry grass. The heat had turned the mud from the night before into dust that settled on their white sneakers.

"She's babysitting Frankenteen," Santana said with a dismissive gesture. "She wants him to make QB."

"They're not cooking anything, though," Brittany contested. She wondered if it had something to do with the sun laying them all out to roast.

That searching look again. Then, suddenly, another chuckle. "No, Britt-Britt, QB like quarterback. The lead football guy."

Brittany smiled shyly. Santana caught it as they ducked into the cool shade of the locker room. "What?"

Brittany shook her head. "I like—" She hesitated. Santana watched her, dark eyes patient, as she meandered to their lockers. Brittany wet her lips. "I like that you explain stuff to me," she admitted.

The honesty settled into the air between them. Santana's smile was gentle. "Any time, Britt," she assured. Her cadence was casual but Brittany could feel the meaning underneath, leaking out where the edges peeled back.

She turned bashfully to her locker. After a pause—their words settling around their sweaty shoulders, feeling more like a confession than a conversation—she asked, "Do you want to come to my Watcher meeting?" She snuck a glance at Santana, whose eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she unzipped her Cheerios top. "I bet Coach Beiste would totally take you on board," she added, resurrecting her suggestion. "And we should ask about that thing we found."

Santana turned as she stuffed her top into her gym bag. Brittany could see the word _no _on Santana's lips—why was she looking at her lips?—but Santana seemed to reconsider, maybe on a whim, and she nodded. "Sure. Can't hurt," she replied, shrugging one shoulder. Her sports bra shifted over her muscles.

Brittany snapped her eyes to her own locker, quickly unzipping her own top. It occurred to her that the last words—_can't hurt_—had the flavor of Santana's smooth lies at the Bronze. The _slam _of Santana's locker hurried her hands, pulling light blue shorts and a tank top from her bag and turning to set them on the bench.

Her hand, clutching the clothes, bumped Santana's stomach. She blinked, eyes jumping to Santana's in surprise.

Hurricane. Calm on the outside—melted by the sun—but her eyes were a tropical storm.

Santana's lips twitched into a smile, this one small and mysterious and mischievous. Brittany opened her mouth to stammer something, anything, and Santana's warm fingers tugged the cloth from Brittany's. Santana dropped the shorts on the bench and threaded the tank top through Brittany's hands, hanging frozen in the air. Brittany came to life as the top slipped over her head. "Just helping," Santana explained lightly.

Brittany caught her eyes again. Those eyes betrayed her, neither light nor helpful, but dark and powerful and _hungry_.

Just as quickly, Santana's eyes flickered away and she took a step back. "Come on," she said, pressing the gym shorts into Brittany's fingers. "Let's go find Beiste."

* * *

><p>"It's not that simple," Beiste insisted, her words strained.<p>

Brittany pouted, brows furrowed. "But isn't it better for her to have my Watcher than no Watcher? I mean, since she's going kinda unwatched right now?"

Beiste looked at Santana, who bit her lip and stayed quiet. "I can ask, I'm just saying it's not a done deal," Beiste explained, glancing at Brittany. "I don't wanna make a promise I can't keep."

Brittany nodded seriously. Her eyes slipped to Santana, who waited expectantly, and back to Beiste. "So…" She drew the word out. "Can she train with me for today?"

She watched Beiste study her for a full second before tucking her head with a chuckle and a smile. "You know I can't say no to that face, Pierce," she chided kindly. She stood from behind her desk and looked at Santana. "Lopez. You ready to train?"

Santana glanced at Brittany—nervous? Brittany noted in surprise—and back to Beiste. "Sure thing, Coach."

As they walked back toward the weight room, Brittany nudged Santana. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

Santana blinked. Surprised. "Yeah, I just—" Dark eyes appraised the back of Beiste's head. Her throat constricted and she whispered to Brittany, "I didn't really train with my old Watcher."

Brittany frowned, about to ask what they did instead, when Beiste turned around and shooed them toward the punching bags. "Pierce, put Lopez through the first runs. I'll go get my clipboard."

Santana offered Brittany a half smile, shyer than usual. "'Pierce,'" she repeated, smothering a light giggle.

Brittany's lips peeled back into a grin. "What?" she demanded.

"Nothing," Santana said, eyes teasing. She took a roll of tape from a stool near the hanging bag. "What's on our to-do list right now?"

Brittany found her eyes dipping down to Santana's lips. She forced herself to speak before she could think about why. "That," she nodded at the tape, "then two minutes with the bag." Her throat was dry.

By the time they finished, Beiste had returned. Brittany forced her eyes from Santana and focused on Beiste's instructions.

A few hours later, Beiste sat with them at a picnic bench with a rotisserie chicken in front of her. Santana and Brittany munched on sandwiches Beiste had picked up from Subway. "Slayers can't survive on Sue's Master Cleanse," she'd chided.

"I almost forgot," Brittany yelped halfway through her sandwich. She flapped her free hand wildly at Santana and used the other to carefully dock her sub on its wrapping paper. "The coin thing." She tucked the corner of a tomato slice into her mouth with her thumb.

Santana made eye contact with Beiste briefly and extracted the medallion from a pocket in her Cheerios duffel bag. She handed it over once Beiste had wiped her hands on a paper towel.

Beiste turned the medallion in her hands, squinting at the markings. "Where'd you girls find this?" She glanced between them, a bit suspiciously.

"The cemetery," Santana supplied. "Took it off a vamp before I dusted him."

Beiste looked mildly impressed and glanced at Brittany. "It's true," Brittany insisted. She realized too late why Beiste seemed confused. "I—went back, after you left," she explained, her words halting. She started a lie—_I forgot something_—but instead admitted, "I didn't feel tired." Beiste's eyes were back on the medallion when Brittany added, "That's when I met Santana."

"Gotcha." Beiste peered up over the medallion to look at Santana. Brittany glanced between them, sensing some silent communication.

Before she could decipher it, Santana turned away and zipped the pouch closed on her Cheerios bag. "Well, if that's all," she said, tone a bit harsh.

"Wait." Brittany grabbed her arm on impulse and Santana's flight turned to stony stillness. Dark eyes found Brittany's. Questioning. Guarded. Brittany spared Beiste a glance, then asked, like a peace offering, "Are we gonna patrol later?"

Santana looked over to Beiste, as if for permission, but seemed to find no answer. Her lips parted and she finally just nodded. She moved to leave, disentangling her legs from the attached picnic bench, but spun to lean over and snatch the pen from Beiste's clipboard. Before Brittany could ask, Santana tugged Brittany's hand over onto the table and held it there, palm up. "Wha—" Brittany cut herself off as Santana scribbled ten digits in small, tight handwriting onto Brittany's wrist, curving onto her forearm.

"Call me at sunset," Santana said, and her voice sounded husky, or maybe it was just the prickle of the ink on Brittany's forearm or Santana's fingers at her wrist or the undertones in the word _sunset_. She could only nod as the whirlwind dropped the pen, tipped her head in deference to Beiste, and sauntered away across the field.

Brittany watched her—wind toying with her hair, hips shifting, stride confident—until Beiste cleared her throat. Brittany turned and settled her hands over her sandwich again. She flicked her eyes to Beiste, sensing a change in the dynamic of their meeting.

Beiste studied her thoughtfully, hands perched on the edge of the table. Any pause from devouring the chicken was usually cause for concern. Brittany took a small bite of her sub that somehow required a large gulp to swallow. "Brittany," Beiste finally said with a sigh.

"You never use my first name," Brittany interrupted. Her nerves shook her voice.

Beiste pursed her lips. "Don't you think this is a little fishy?"

Brittany looked down at her sandwich. "Well, no. I mean, there's no fish in mine. Is there fish in chicken? Because I thought—"

"No." Beiste cut her off, not unkindly. "This thing with Santana."

Brittany glanced over her shoulder. Santana was gone. Like she'd sapped into the air, or blown off with the wind. Brittany turned back to Beiste. "Yeah—why didn't you tell me about her?" she asked. Her head tilted to one side.

Beiste's eyes drifted away from hers. Brittany blinked and frowned. Beiste had kept something from her. "Why didn't you tell me?" she repeated, more insistent and harsh. She thought back to Santana in the graveyard, mouth agape—_They didn't tell you?_

"Calm down," Beiste was saying, gesturing with her hand like she was closing a jack-in-the-box. Brittany felt her face clouding over, like Santana's at the mention of her mother. She couldn't stop. She couldn't calm down. She felt the clouds turning into little stones at the bottom of her stomach. Beiste continued. "I wanted to wait."

"Wait for what?" Her tone was still even, still quiet, but she knew Beiste recognized her anger.

"We were still training," Beiste began. "And it's hard to explain."

"So you knew."

Beiste hesitated. She took in Brittany's dark expression. "Yeah," she admitted after a long pause. It came out like a sigh. Brittany looked aside. Absorbing. "She was called about a year ago, I think," Beiste said.

Of course Beiste knew. Santana hadn't just moved to Lima.

Brittany's eyes shifted back to her Watcher. Narrowed. Suspicious. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"She wasn't my Slayer," Beiste insisted, "and like I said, I ain't a Watcher—or, I wasn't, until you moved here." She seemed uncomfortable. "Lopez had her own. I wasn't really involved in it. I didn't even start working here until after she started slayin'. A little bit before you got here."

"But you knew."

Beiste looked aside. She seemed to struggle with her words. "I mean, I knew she was the Slayer," she said slowly, "but I steered clear. Tangling with the Watchers' Council is like baiting a bear with an ear of corn."

Brittany ignored the metaphor. "Who was her Watcher? Not you," she added doubtfully, hesitant to pose it as a question after Beiste's defensive reaction.

Beiste's hands hovered over the chicken, as if going back to her food would settle the conversation into something less tense. "Like I said—I wasn't involved," she said, but the corner of her lip pulled back and she accepted that Brittany could sense the omission. "But I understood it was Holly Holliday."

Brittany gathered her sandwich in her hands in slow motion, implicitly sanctioning a shift to a less hostile tone. "Who's Holly Holliday?" she asked, nose scrunching toward her eyebrows. "That's a funny name."

"I know," Beiste said in disbelief. She pulled a drumstick off the chicken and took a bite; Brittany mirrored her with the sandwich. "She's a substitute," Beiste said around her food. "Haven't seen her this summer, though."

Brittany chewed thoughtfully. Her eyes traced the digits on her arm. "Isn't two Slayers better than one?" she asked sincerely, shifting her hands to rescue a bit of dangling lettuce.

Beiste looked at the open field behind Brittany. "I guess so," she admitted, like she was pushing a boulder over a cliff. Her eyes met Brittany's again. "Just be careful, Pierce. You don't know much about her."

Brittany thought about Santana's whipping hair, her throaty voice, her dark eyes. "No, I guess not," she agreed.


	4. Starstruck

Brittany hugged her knees to her chest and peered over them at her cell phone. She wiped her thumb over the screen. The light dimmed, the phone drifting into sleep mode, but the question was the same: _Call Santana?_

She looked out her window at the cropped trees, wet lawns, and gold sky. It was nearly eight and the sun was just settling into the horizon, like a child under a blanket. The rays spilled across her lap and the drawstring bag at the floor by the foot of her bed. She was almost embarrassed to be dressed and packed and ready to slay, waiting eagerly for sunset.

Struggling to answer her phone's question.

Her fingers worried the frayed edge of her jean shorts; though it made her ears burn red, she could admit that knowing what Santana wore for slaying had inspired her to wear something slightly less casual than gym clothes.

She chewed the inside of her cheek. Was it Santana's outfit or Santana that guided her hands to short shorts and a t-shirt with a too-wide neck? She wet her lips and tucked the thought away. She touched the center button of her phone and the same suggestion lit up. _Call Santana?_

Brittany pressed the call button and brought the phone hesitantly to her ear. The speaker rang, harsh and watery, four times before Santana picked up. "What?"

Brittany faltered, her bolstered confidence leaking out of her. "I—It's me, Brittany," she said.

"Oh." She heard movement on Santana's end. "Right. I was wondering if you'd remember."

"You said to call," Brittany replied, a touch defensively. "It's sunset."

More shuffling. "I guess it is. Do you need a ride?"

Brittany looked back out her window at the disappearing sun. "I'll just walk. It's still nice out."

"Cool. See you in fifteen." Brittany was about to smile when she heard, muffled, "No, Puck. I'm—" and the call cut off.

She jogged to the cemetery to warm her muscles and adjust to the stale summer breeze. The motion felt good—familiar—and she stretched at the corner by the row of parking spaces. Her phone told her she had five minutes to spare. She squatted at the curb and teased her bag open, digging inside for a stake. She squinted up at the last rays reaching over the trees and tucked her weapon in her waistband.

She tugged the straps to close the bag and stood up as a black car turned the corner. It pulled into a spot several yards from Brittany and she wasn't surprised when Santana stepped out, all tight jeans and tight shirt and dark, loose hair. "Hey, Britts," she said, kicking the door shut and slipping a stake into her back pocket.

Brittany smiled hesitantly. "Hi."

Santana stared at her for a second, then dipped her head with a smile, gesturing toward the fence. "Well? Shall we?"

"Yeah." Brittany followed Santana over the fence and into the cemetery. She eyed Santana surreptitiously. The dusk sapped the color from everything; Santana was composed of thin shadow against flat skin. Her eyes shone strangely in the fading light. "Did you really think I forgot?" Brittany asked, after several minutes' silent wandering among the graves.

Santana peered at their surroundings and answered, absently, "Not really." When Brittany stayed quiet, Santana glanced over and met Brittany's gaze. "I guess it's just weird to do this… planned," she said, gesturing vaguely at Brittany. Her lips thinned like the words weren't describing her thoughts quite correctly.

"Patrolling?" Brittany reminded herself to glance around for early risers, but the streaks of receding sun in the sky would likely keep vampires away for some time yet.

Santana snorted and smiled at her. "Sure." She shook her head at Brittany's blank look and chuckled. "It's just funny—still—that you call it that."

Brittany smiled back, tentative, and looked away. They were quiet again, picking their way around the graves. Brittany was beginning to learn her way between mausoleums and along the paths, but Santana led them confidently, with the sure steps of experience. Brittany glanced at the gray sky. "Maybe we should've waited til later," she admitted.

"Yeah." Santana was examining the outline of the half-moon. "Be a while before any baddies show up." Her dark eyes darted to Brittany's and she looked almost—almost—embarrassed, where her chin rippled at the corner. "Sorry I dragged you out so early."

Brittany peered at her curiously. "I called you," she said.

"I told you to call at sunset," Santana countered with a shrug. She slowed to a stop and stepped onto a bench, sitting on its back with her feet braced against the seat and armrest.

Brittany hovered to the side and hooked her thumbs in her back pockets. Santana stared at the sky with a glaze in her look, like she was thinking about something else. Brittany pressed her lungs against her ribs with a deep breath and chanced, "We could've come later. You sounded"—she struggled—"busy on the phone."

Dark eyes flashed to hers. In the dim evening and the sticky air and the silent cemetery, she felt the tornado up against her, testing for weaknesses and sinkholes and secrets. Her ears burned, but she let Santana size her up until the reply finally came with a nonchalant shrug. "It's just Puck."

There was something measured about the way Santana's neck pivoted and her eyes settled carefully back on the thin gray clouds. The glazed look was gone. "Oh," Brittany said, careful to mask her—what? Confusion? Brittany swallowed. Hurt? "I just meant… if there aren't any vamps out yet…" She trailed off and rolled her shoulders.

"No big," Santana answered with a dismissive gesture. She laid her hands along the edge of the bench and leaned back into her shoulders with a sigh like a cool breeze. "It's nice out."

Brittany fidgeted and walked around to the other side of Santana, climbing onto the bench beside her and perching carefully. Her hand settled next to Santana's on the edge. She looked at Santana before following her sightline to the moon. "My little sister loves being outside," she said mildly. "She always wants to catch frogs and stuff. But my mom makes her let them go."

She sensed more than saw the quirk of Santana's lips. Whirlwind dropped her foot from the bench arm and dragged her hands into her lap, loosely clasped. "How old's your sister?" Santana asked, studying the chipped turquoise polish on her nails. Voice too quiet and unsteady.

"She's seven," Brittany said. "Her name's Katie."

Santana glanced at her, lips close to a smile. "Bet she looks just like you."

Brittany smiled a little, bashfully, without realizing it. "What makes you say that?" she said, feeling the warmth of Santana's eyes brush over her light hair and eyes, her cheekbones and the lip she was biting.

"Just a hunch," Santana said, meeting her eyes again. The look lasted too long, though, and when Santana broke it, her demeanor had changed. She slid off the bench and stood in front of it, surveying the darkening landscape with her left hand teasing the air by the stake in her pocket. "Let's just do a quick sweep, and if we don't find anything, we can blow this off."

Brittany felt like she should protest—they both knew any activity to be had would come later, much later—but she slipped off the bench and moved slowly to Santana's side and found herself agreeing. She touched Santana's elbow and looked the storm in the eyes, trying to calm it. "Okay," she said softly, squeezing gently.

Santana looked long enough that it seemed to be working. Her hand stopped grasping at the air; Brittany's slid from Santana's elbow, tickling along her forearm, to tangle their fingers. She'd meant to link pinkies, but her middle fingers slipped between Santana's, and Santana gripped them securely. Brittany smiled—hopeful and afraid to be hopeful—and Santana looked at her with an open expression, an expression like a pitcher pouring water into the ocean, like snow settling on the windowsill, like smoke soaking into the air. She turned away quickly, shielding her face from Brittany's eyes, but she tugged at their knotted hands and led Brittany through the graveyard in silence.

* * *

><p>Brittany focused on Santana's soft skin until—ten minutes later? An hour? A year?—Santana stopped and spun around next to a tall marble structure. The world was getting darker around them, and Santana's dark eyes snapped Brittany's like a spark, gleaming in the dim light. Santana disentangled their fingers and turned back to the structure, bracing her foot against a divot and gripping a high edge above her. "Up?" Brittany asked simply, brows relaxed in surprise.<p>

"Up." Santana grinned, flashing those dark eyes. Her loose hair coiled in the stale breeze and her shirt rode up against the muscles along her spine. She was atop the small building in seconds and Brittany followed her. Pulled into the hurricane.

They settled along the gentle slope of the roof. Santana let one leg hang off the edge, her other bent to wedge heel against haunches. She folded her arms against her knee and leaned her chin on them, eyes turned upward at the darkening sky. Brittany stretched out, legs hanging off the edge, palms face-down on the marble where her arms supported her body like scaffolding. She studied Santana in profile—her forehead, her dark eyelashes; the line of her lips, so strained and contented—but when Santana didn't meet her gaze, she too turned heavenward.

Brittany could see the stars, shy even without the sun to overpower them. They were just as bright—maybe brighter—than in Indiana. She hadn't realized how close her family had lived to the city until they came to Lima, with its open spaces and small roads and short buildings and bright stars.

She craned her neck to find Ursa Minor. The Little Bear. She lied back on the roof gingerly, curling her arm behind her head to keep the Little Bear in her sights. Santana glanced at her—she saw a dark eye glint in the starlight—and, after a few moments' hesitation, lied beside her. She, too, leaned her head against her elbow, her other hand settled lightly near her navel.

The world was quiet. Brittany heard a mosquito near her and swatted it absently. Santana sighed and murmured, "I love it up here."

Brittany saw her body tense—Santana's ribcage inflated jerkily as she controlled her breath—and knew the words had slipped out unbidden. She realized this was the first time Santana had admitted enjoying something. Without even being asked. She swallowed. "It's beautiful," she agreed, her voice coming out thick and soft. She chanced a look at Santana and ran right into the vortex. She read surprise in the dark eyes. And maybe something else.

Brittany tilted her head back, looking up at the stars behind them, and said, "The stars are so bright here." A secret for a secret. She wet her lips. "They were hard to see, back home. But here I can see them all."

She saw Santana gaze upward with new appreciation. "Do you know, like, constellations and stuff?"

Brittany bit her lip. Her eyes were drawn to Santana's face as she looked between stars, perhaps trying to remember anything she knew about them. "I know some," Brittany admitted, and Santana turned back with that open look, like she had never heard anything so wonderful or gentle.

"Show me," Santana said, words barely a whisper. She seemed to find something in Brittany's eyes because she didn't look away.

Brittany tore her eyes away to carefully take Santana's hand from her stomach. She curled three of Santana's fingers in and fit their index fingers against one another, lifting them up to point at the sky. She shuffled closer, to blend their sightlines, and only when her shoulder brushed Santana's did the whirlwind finally look up at their fingers in silhouette.

Brittany guided them over Santana's body and narrated, "Orion's belt. See the three?" She traced Santana's finger over the bright specks and then the outline of the warrior. "He's easy to find." Her eyes scanned and their hands followed. "And there's Andromeda, the woman chained."

Santana's voice came again. Tentative. "Chained?"

Brittany glanced over and met Santana's gaze. Dark eyes jumped between Brittany's and down to—her lips? Brittany swallowed, letting their joined hands down to rest in the space between them, and said, "She was chained to a rock. She was supposed to get sacrificed to a sea monster, because her mother bragged about how pretty she was." Santana's eyebrow tilted, just slightly. Brittany looked at their hands, still clasped against the marble, and finished, "But Perseus came and saved her. They got married."

Santana's smile was slight and sad. "Kind of dramatic compared to _Snow White_. She just took a nap." Brittany smiled a little, wondering how Santana knew she loved _Snow White_, and Santana asked, "What's your favorite one?"

"Disney movie?" Brittany asked, her thoughts trailing into the conversation.

Santana smiled a little more. "Constellation."

"Oh." Brittany looked up at the sky again. She smiled when she saw it and brought their hands up to point it out. "Ursa Minor. The Little Bear."

"It looks like the Big Dipper."

"It's sometimes called the Little Dipper." She let go of Santana's hand because she was beginning to worry Santana could feel her pulse speeding up. Her shoulder felt electric where it touched Santana's.

She felt hurricane eyes on her and stared steadily at the Little Bear. "What's its story?" Santana asked. She sounded like something was caught in her throat.

Brittany took a deep breath. "Arcas," she recited. The story came to her easily. "Zeus cheated on his wife with Callisto, and his wife got mad and turned Callisto into a bear. Arcas was her son." She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "He was a great hunter, and one day his mom saw him and tried to come over to him. But she was still a bear. He was going to kill her." She crossed her arms over her stomach, as if to protect herself from Arcas's arrow. "So Zeus took pity on them and put them in the sky. Before they could hurt each other."

Brittany could still feel dark eyes on her. She turned to meet them, unsure what she'd see or what she'd show. The story always made her feel sad, somehow, and when she caught Santana's gaze she didn't see the tornado. It was still a storm, but it was like watching heavy rain through a window. Or watching water boil through a clear lid.

She felt a tingle at her wrist and Santana's hand curled around hers. She tried to smile, but her lips only dipped a little, and Santana's breath caught like she was trying to say something, but couldn't come up with the words. Brittany felt the tip of Santana's thumb grazing her palm and for a second she thought her heart would stop—or maybe beat its way out of her chest—and she realized she had tilted her head and moved her shoulder so she was closer, much closer, and Santana's eyes were full of something dark and thick and they were closer, much closer, and those eyes flicked to Brittany's lips and she—

Light blinded them from a car turning on the road. Santana broke away—tugged her eyes and hands back into herself—and sat up, knees curled up to her chest. "We should go," she said, her voice murky under everything Brittany had seen in her eyes. "It's getting late."

Brittany sat up and Santana moved to the edge, slow and deliberate. Face tucked away. Brittany glanced up at the stars—at the fog drifting past the moon and over Andromeda—and heard Santana hit the ground. She peered over the edge as whirlwind rolled to her feet and looked upward, flashing a look all glinting eyes and teeth. Brittany gripped the ledge and swung down, landing with bent knees. Dark eyes soaked her in as she stood up, but the question on Brittany's lips spilled silently into the night as Santana turned and wove her way back through the headstones.

A shiver rippled Brittany's spine despite the summer heat. She swallowed against her dry throat and paced after Santana. "Do you want to go to the Bronze?" she asked, tentative.

She knew the answer before it came. "Not really." Santana didn't look at her, and Brittany tasted a strange cocktail of apology and honesty. Reasons settled, unmixed, at the bottom.

"Okay," Brittany said, looking ahead, at the gate and Santana's car far ahead of them.

"Do you need a ride?" Tornado was still looking away. Dark hair whipping around, more from her harried pace than any breeze. Santana combed her fingers through it.

Brittany hesitated. She read tension in the lines of Santana's forearm. Her quick pace. Her flighty eyes. "Not tonight," she answered. She wasn't sure she could ride with this hurricane. In a little car, she wasn't sure she could survive it.

"Okay," Santana answered, still not looking at her. She vaulted the fence easily, not showing off like before. Brittany mimicked her and Santana walked around the hood of her LeBaron, stalling suddenly with her fingers curled under the driver door's handle. The street light dropped a wide bar of orange light across the middle of Santana's face, painting strange, angled shadows along the edges. Those eyes traced the hedges across the street, as if searching for something, but they were glassy; far away. She knew she wouldn't find what she was searching for.

Santana met Brittany's gaze. It felt like a punch in the chest; even in the dark, in the shadow, Brittany could see the guilt and fear and feeling seething. The power pinned her, even across the car and the distance between them, and she could hardly believe how much more she got out of that look than the words that dribbled out of Santana's lips, lips that had been so close to hers just minutes before. "See you at practice tomorrow."

Brittany could only nod. She stood, frozen—like she'd been stared down by Medusa, or maybe more like King Midas had reached out and traced down her tingling spine, transforming her into something different, something solid and golden and beautiful—until Santana's taillights escaped her trailing eyes.

Like they knew something she didn't, Brittany's fingers reached up and traced lightly over her lips like a ghost. The night settled around her: soft, quiet, still. Her hand dropped to her side and a weak breeze teased halfheartedly at the loose hair at the base of her neck.

She glanced at the sky. The stars were hidden behind the clouds.


	5. Dreamgirls

Standard disclaimers. This fic is a fun outlet for my Unholy Trinity feelings. Hope you guys enjoy all the Buffy references in this chapter!

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><p>Brittany felt the ridges of the medallion under her fingers. Squinted at the strange symbols. She knew nothing of their meaning—their shapes and arrangement revealed nothing to her—but they felt familiar somehow, like the embossed cover of her little sister's favorite book, or her mother's engraved necklace. She brushed her thumb over one of the characters and was shocked to see a smear of sharp red left behind.<p>

The medallion slipped from her grasp and she stared in horror at the blood slaked across her palm.

A searing flash blinded her. She was back in the dark, dank warehouse in Indianapolis. She felt her heart squeeze against her ribs and her lungs and her breaths came shallow. "You're too late," she heard, and she couldn't tell if the voice was in the room or in her head but it pounded inside her all the same. She saw the body against the broken crate and she tried to run to it, but her legs moved slowly, as if through water, and when she got there it wasn't who she expected at all.

She saw long dark hair and when she reached out, it was Santana who turned to her with ice in her eyes and growled, "Don't touch me with _that _on your hands."

Brittany looked down and saw the blood and she felt the panic pushing tears to the corners of her eyes. She raised her hand to blot them out but the sight of her sticky red fingers made her feel sick and she squeezed her eyes shut, hard.

When she opened them she was back in the cemetery, legs stretching far ahead of her in a sprint, trying to catch a head of long blond hair. Her confused frown didn't stop her body from giving chase—it seemed to know something she didn't—and she noticed with startling, dreamlike clarity that the figure in front of her looked a bit like her aunt.

The moonlight revealed little else about the woman, but something deep inside told her to keep up her pursuit. She thought she heard the woman shouting—_I didn't mean it_, she heard, _I was trying to help_—but again, Brittany couldn't tell if the voice was inside or outside. Her pulse blotted out the words and for a few moments Brittany was just a heartbeat and long legs, a lion hunting in the darkness, and as that word crossed her mind—_hunting—_she noticed that the blood had smeared across her forearms in long, angry lines, and the acrid smell had spread across her tongue like iron.

The marks only made her run faster. Her eyes caught the bobbing blond hair again and she suddenly found Santana beside her, and if Brittany was a lion then Santana was a panther, dark and sleek under her whipping black hair. Santana had the same marks on her arms and Brittany saw some on her face, like war paint. Santana's expression was dark and serious and Brittany swallowed.

"You won't catch her," she heard, but Santana's lips hadn't moved. "You're not fast enough." And Santana's eyes were darker than storm clouds, darker than the hurricane Brittany had seen before, and Santana was a shadow melting into the night as she streaked ahead of Brittany after the blond woman.

_Wait_, Brittany tried to say, but her throat had closed around the taste of blood on her teeth. _Wait_, she tried again, putting the force of a scream behind it, but it just tore up her throat and died on her lips. Her long legs were no match for Santana's stormy soul; Santana and the blonde are getting farther and farther away. She felt the panic pushing farther, up toward her tonsils like bile, but before it spilled out she tripped over something on the ground.

As she scrambled to her feet, she saw that the blood on her arms had congealed into thick gray clay, and she felt it hum with strange power along her flesh. She pushed her feet underneath her and forced her knees to lock, but a cold, thin arm wrapped around her chest and tugged her against damp cloth and knobby bones.

It was like all the air in her lungs was put inside a box; there wasn't enough, but she couldn't seem to add more. The skeletal body and forearm were familiar—too familiar—and she tasted the blood in her mouth again as his bumpy brows knocked the corner of her jaw. His breath was cold against her neck. "You can't escape me," he said, and she knew the words came from him—she felt them beat gently against her jugular. Her body felt almost as cold as his, like all her warm blood was gone, leaving only its taste behind to linger along her gums. The thought terrified her.

"You'll never beat me," he continued. She wondered, through her terror, if he would still bite her, when she had no blood to offer. She looked down at her arms, pinned to her sides by fear and fear alone, and saw that the clay with the buzz of energy had melted back into crusty blood, and it smelled and felt like poison caked on her skin. She shuddered and he laughed, nuzzling under her ear and letting his sharp teeth scrape her lightly. "And you'll never save anyone if you can't save yourself."

She choked down the words like swallowing too-big pills and by the time they settled like a lump of coal in her belly, he had disappeared. She fell to her knees without his arm bracing her. She heard her own voice finally rip out of her—_Santana?_—and instead of a shout, it came out a whimper. Her eyes traced the graves, trying to find what direction they'd been running, but now all the graves were facing her, spiraling out like ripples in a pond.

She squinted at the names set into the stone, but she couldn't read them. She looked down and saw the medallion, sitting between her knees, still smudged with blood.

Brittany shot upright in her bed. She gasped, and her pants cleansed her lungs of the sharp scent of blood, fresh in her mind from the nightmare. She looked down at her arms, but instead of the marks, there was only cold sweat.

She lied down carefully, staring at the ceiling.

Not again.

* * *

><p>Brittany traced the snapping fingers back to Quinn's annoyed expression. The edges tinged with concern. "What's up with you today?"<p>

Brittany's eyes flashed from her palm—still clean, pink from harsh scrubbing in the shower—to the barren parking lot. Her mouth felt dry. She wondered where Santana was, and if her nightmare had been shared. "Didn't sleep well," she finally managed. It felt like pushing marbles around with her tongue: difficult and pointless. She worked to look back at Quinn and away from the lot and her clean hands. "What'd you say?"

Quinn looked suspicious, but Quinn was never the type to ask. Brittany watched her file this incident away with a thousand other incidents, carefully cataloguing all of Brittany's space cadet moments for some mysterious purpose. "I just asked if you wanted to meet at the Bronze later."

"I have—" Brittany brushed her thumb along her palm absently and watched the LeBaron swoop into an empty space. She looked back at Quinn. "I have a thing. Dance."

The corner of Quinn's mouth dipped up toward her cheekbones. Irritated. "Brittany, what has got you so out of it?"

Brittany opened her mouth and it took an extra second to repeat her words: "I said. Didn't sleep well." Her gaze wandered to Santana, crisp in her uniform in the early morning light, stepping off the curb onto the grass.

Quinn finally turned to see what drew Brittany's eyes like a magnet, but before she reacted to Santana, a bullhorn scratched into life. Coach Sue's voice broke the summer serenity like a brick through a windshield. "Cheerios, circle up! Standing in circles yakking is not a stunt recognized by the Cheerleading Board, and I will have none of it!"

Brittany still thumbed her palm, stomach sick with the fear of finding it crusty or slippery, but her anxious look at Santana wasn't reflected. The storm in her eyes faced inward; her face was unreadable.

Practice was brutal: two new routines punctuated by endless wind sprints. By the end of the last set, only Slayer strength stood between Brittany and the clot of freshmen throwing up in the trash cans. Quinn and Santana caught her eye and walked toward the locker room; even they looked queasy.

"You should blow off dance and come tonight," Quinn said, once they had showered and fought down the nausea. "It'll be fun."

Santana seemed to sense Brittany's unease, even with her head and arm deep in her locker, looking for deodorant. "You just don't wanna get stuck alone with Finn." Brittany could hear a smug smirk on Santana's lips as the words echoed twice against the locker's metal insides.

Quinn huffed, zipping up the top on a clean Cheerios uniform. Brittany had only seen her out of uniform on an impromptu sleepover in July, when she'd worn pajamas to sleep in. Maybe Quinn needed Cheerios armor all the time. "That's not true," Quinn snapped at Santana, but it was hardly convincing.

"Are you guys fighting?" Santana peered around her locker door and applied the deodorant she'd liberated.

"No," Quinn replied too quickly.

Santana glanced at Brittany. Brittany offered a slight shrug and tugged a t-shirt on. "Your tease-don't-please policy got him down again?" Santana tried. Her lips curled wickedly. "Or up, maybe?"

"Can it, Santana." The flush on Quinn's face could have been from anger or embarrassment. Santana laughed either way. Brittany aimed her smile at her duffel bag to evade Quinn's wrath.

Santana tucked her uniform away and shut her locker door. "Whatever. Maybe it's a good thing he won't dance. He'd probably blow his load right on the floor with you grinding up on him."

"Santana!" Quinn's slack-jawed shock blurred with annoyance; Brittany wondered if this conversation was even out of the ordinary for them.

Santana just laughed. "Sorry, Q, forgot you don't grind."

Quinn wrinkled her nose and waved Santana off. "You grind enough for the both of us."

"You know it!" Santana replied happily, bumping her hip against Quinn's. Her eyes flashed when they caught Brittany's. Brittany busied herself with folding her uniform into her locker.

"How come you're not coming?" Quinn asked Santana, apparently remembering her mission.

Santana leaned against the lockers and folded her arms. "Going to Puck's," she answered simply. Her forehead bunched in a frown and she studied Quinn. "You really don't wanna go alone."

Quinn shrugged and shook her head. "It's not a big deal," she protested. "I just thought you'd wanna hang out, since you just got back."

The jibe worked; Santana followed Quinn's crafted detour. "We just hung out all day," she said with a shrug. Quinn didn't look convinced; Cheerios hardly counted as quality time. Santana seemed to believe it just as little, so she continued. "Anyway, he was pissed I blew him off the other night, and I could use a decent roll in the hay after a summer in Sneezeland."

Brittany watched her carefully, but Santana didn't look in her direction. Santana had just been at Puck's. Why lie?

"Gross," Quinn said without conviction. She packed her belongings into her backpack and zipped it with finality. She looked at Brittany. "Do you want a ride with Finn and me?"

Brittany glanced at Santana and shook her head. "San offered me a ride," she answered. She blinked—the pet name and the lie had both rolled off her tongue like a gumball rolling into the street, out of her reach—but Santana was nodding to Quinn and Quinn was offering them a curt goodbye. Quinn was out the door with her bag over her shoulder when Santana turned back to Brittany.

Brittany wet her lips and met those eyes. Her nervous hands folded the waistband of her shorts over once. Pressed the locker door until it clicked.

Santana smiled at Brittany like she knew something. She said nothing about the ride she hadn't offered. "Are we supposed to go see Beiste, or do you actually have dance?" she asked. Genuinely curious.

Brittany glanced at the clock. "I have dance later," she explained. "At eight." She looked back at Santana and added, "I don't patrol on nights I have dance."

Santana slipped her bag onto her shoulder, finger and thumb worrying the edge of the strap. Her eyes were choppy like waves. A roiling sea. Brittany felt suddenly—inexplicably—irrationally—that Santana knew it was a lie. She knew Brittany would come home from dance riled up. Knew she'd turn the shower on cold and shiver. Knew her blood would still boil. That it would lead her out her window at midnight. To patrol.

To hunt.

The thought—the anticipation—tugged her eyes from Santana's, down to the creases of her palms. She touched the fingertips of one hand to the lines of the other. The slick blood of her nightmare streaked across her vision and she winced.

Santana cupped Brittany's hands tenderly and drew her out from the dream. Whirlwind tucked her lips into her mouth and looked at Brittany's palm, like she was remembering, too. "So… did you—?" Santana was hesitant. It was startling.

Brittany's gaze broke left; she reeled as it became clear. Of course. They'd shared the nightmare. Her thoughts rolled into one another, gathering into a cloud, churning into thick, throat-clotting panic. What had Santana seen? Heard? Had she seen—him?

A touch, light against her palm, brought her eyes back to Santana's. Deep and strong. "We should tell Beiste, right?" Santana asked. Like she knew Brittany didn't want to talk. Couldn't talk. Brittany dipped her head and nodded; she focused on Santana's fingers, brushing little sparks along her knuckles and veins and fingertips.

Santana took Brittany's hands more firmly in hers and pulled. "Well, _vamos_," she said, and her voice was warm and gentle, and it was so different from the cold dark iron of the dream that Brittany managed to breathe again. Santana dropped one hand from Brittany's to take Brittany's bag and weaved past the benches toward Beiste's office.

Beiste was excited. "There you are," she said, rising from her chair. Her office was always messy; playbooks and reference texts cluttered the bookshelves, and papers littered the bookshelves, desktop, and floor. Beiste bustled around the chair to twist a dusty trophy ninety degrees and a panel of the wall opened to reveal a tightly packed set of shelves beside a weapons case. Brittany blinked dispassionately, but she smiled when she saw Santana's jaw slacken.

"Whoa," whirlwind whispered. When she noticed Brittany grinning, she reigned in her awe and nudged Brittany in the ribs.

Beiste didn't notice. "I looked into that medallion you brought me," she said, fingers running along the books on the shelf. "Called around a little." She wrangled one of the books away from its tight-pressed neighbors and slammed it on the desk in triumph. "It's apparently the Talisman of Sonn-Licht. The inscription's Sumerian, though." She broke the book open to a marked page and held the medallion beside it, running her fingers along the engraved figures and the corresponding translation in the text. "Look: 'In the pool, a reflection of a stranger; their shadows will turn together 'til both come unraveled in the light.'"

Santana glanced at Brittany with a small frown. They turned to Beiste and Brittany asked, after a pause, "So… what's that mean?"

Beiste hovered, pride fading from her features. "I dunno," she admitted finally. Her hand drifted from the page. "But I'm still looking into it. I should have more tomorrow." She seemed almost embarrassed they hadn't been more impressed.

Brittany glanced at Santana and down at her hands. She knew Santana would say nothing. "Um, Coach—" Beiste looked at her, and it threw her off. She wet her lips. The words rolled around in her mouth like pop rocks: How could she explain such a nightmare? Especially without revealing too much? Her eyes found Santana's again, and they were churning like boats being crashed against rocks. "We—I had one of the dreams last night."

"We both did," Santana confirmed, seeming to draw something like courage from Brittany.

Beiste frowned. "Shit," she cursed seriously. "Pierce, how long's it been since you had one?"

Brittany looked at her shoes and scuffed the floor. She'd had nightmares about _him_ before this—but not Slayer nightmares. She thought back. "Well, I had that one in June about fighting Kool-Aid mouth guy, but you said that happened already. This was…" She glanced at Santana, struggling for words. "This one hasn't happened yet."

Beiste sensed their connection and pressed, "Well, what happened in it? You think it was a prophecy?"

Hot blood flushed Brittany's cheeks and she turned her hand to look at her palm. "I hope not," she whispered, too quiet for Beiste to hear.

Santana covered for her. "It might not be," she said. Her eyes held Beiste's and her pinkie found Brittany's surreptitiously. "There was a warehouse, and then we were chasing this blond chick through the cemetery." Brittany caught her eye and saw everything that was left out. She wondered how Santana's dream had ended. Her eyes were so dark and grim that it couldn't have ended much better than Brittany's.

"Blond chick?" Beiste was turning back to the book about the medallion. She flipped the pages, like she'd come across a picture or the words _Blond Chick_ in bold lettering. "Is she what they're warning you about?"

"Not sure," Santana answered. Brittany squeezed their pinkies in gratitude. She had trouble with the dreams, too vibrant and rough and strong. Had trouble talking about them. Santana was bailing her out. "I never caught up to her," Santana finished vaguely, with a shrug. Brittany wondered if Santana's dream had really petered out like that—or if she was hiding something, too. When Santana squeezed her pinkie back, her sinking stomach voted for the latter.

Beiste seemed conflicted, but just shrugged. "Well, if that's all we've got to go on, we'll just have to wait it out." She didn't look happy about it, but she was right—the clues they'd given weren't sufficient.

Brittany felt like she should explain about _him_ and what he said, but the thought of assembling the icy panic into words made her chest feel too small for her lungs. Explaining _him_ meant explaining the warehouse and Indianapolis and Henri and the blood staining her palms.

An elbow brushed hers gently. She glanced at Santana and realized her hand had gone white from clenching so tightly. "You girls can go," Beiste was saying, and Santana was thanking her and guiding Brittany out of the room.

Between Beiste's office and the outer doors, Santana pulled Brittany's hand into hers, unhooking their pinkies and spreading Brittany's fingers delicately. She traced the pads of her fingers over the clean creases and Brittany stared. She imagined the phantom blood wiped off under Santana's touch; as if she could sense it, Santana carefully traced every space. When she finished, she stretched her hand over Brittany's to clasp it.

Brittany could see Santana assembling her thoughts, lining them up in rows of linked words, but she seemed to come up as empty as Brittany had. As she gave up, she dropped Brittany's hand. Though Brittany missed the warmth and the sense of safety—safety from the blood, the stain that had chased her all day—her eyes traced the red and white floor tiles and she said nothing.

Santana looked ahead of them, at the gym doors, but Brittany could feel the energy sliding off her. Her jaw was tight and her fingers tensed as she walked. But she hadn't been staring at her palms all day. Brittany couldn't figure out what she needed.

She folded her arms across her chest and wished she had the courage to take Santana's hand again.


	6. Don't Trust Me

Not gonna lie, disappointed the last chapter got no reviews. But there's still a ton of you on alert, so here's chapter 6! Enjoy a throwback to 2009 radio hits, too.

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><p>The sun still lingered when they left, though it was barely dinnertime. Brittany checked the time on her phone. She looked up when she felt Santana's eyes on her.<p>

"Do you need to get home for dinner?" Brittany studied Santana's expression; the words had been notably careful.

She wondered. What if she said no? What would Santana suggest? Part of her was dying to know—to ask—but for some reason, she couldn't. "Kinda," she admitted. "Family time."

"Quality time at the Pierces'?" Santana asked with a smile. Brittany saw the flicker at the corner of Santana's eye and the joint of her jaw. She sensed the bitterness Santana swallowed, though she knew it wasn't meant for her.

Brittany tore her eyes away when she nodded, eyes on the thirsty grass and the setting sun. She felt Santana looking at her. "You can come if you want," she offered, voice almost too soft to hear over their footsteps and the sound of birds heading home to their nests.

She snuck a glance at Santana, who struggled to hide her surprise. Brittany studied the wrinkled t-shirt and the black jeans from the night before. She wondered if Santana had gone home. She waited for an answer.

Santana seemed to struggle with herself. "I don't want to intrude," she stated. Words too careful. She hadn't answered the question, but Brittany read the tension at Santana's temple and her attentive gaze. It told her more than _yes_ would have.

Brittany smiled gently. Talking to Santana was like trying to get Lord Tubbington into her lap. Coaxing. A warm voice. "My family's really nice," she said. She realized as she said it that her reply was as far from an answer or explanation as Santana's had been.

She looked up to explain further when Santana's eyes caught her. They hit her like lightning, diving through her flesh and giving her heart a jitter.

Just as quickly, tsunami turned away. "Shouldn't you ask?" Santana hooked her thumbs in her back pockets, elbows nudging her bag. "Before you invite me over?"

It still wasn't _yes_. Brittany bit the corner of her lip. "It's fine," she said. "They'll like that I'm making friends."

Santana looked at her, still hesitant. "But you have been making friends," she said, trying and failing to keep her tone light. "Quinn, at least."

Brittany smiled a little, not knowing why, and scanned the parking lot for Santana's car. "That's true," she allowed, the words a hum between her cheeks. "But it's not like she's come over for dinner or anything. They haven't met her."

Santana glanced at her, eyes full of—_something_, something like storm clouds and white sunlight. Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, but Brittany noticed a dimple duck under her cheekbone. "Well, I guess they're gonna meet me."

Brittany smiled, turning back to watch the last traces of the sun disappearing behind the taller trees. She followed—or maybe led—Santana to the car. "And you can meet Lord Tubbington," she realized.

Santana laughed. The doors unlocked with a _thunk_. "What if he doesn't like me?" she asked, somewhere between joking and serious.

Brittany frowned. Lord Tubbington had been in a bit of a mood lately, but she was sure he could be civil, at least. She peeked at Santana's face in profile as they settled into the seats. Santana punched the stereo button to turn it off and tossed her backpack in the backseat. Brittany could see Santana's eyes, rolling like clouds, or maybe the ocean. Brittany had never seen the ocean, but she imagined it might look like that, with deep, dark waves, drawing her in and pushing her away. Full of secrets.

She wasn't sure she could escape this hurricane, even if Lord Tubbington disapproved. Even if he threatened to take up smoking again or show her mother those pages in her diary. Something in those eyes would keep her here.

"He will," she said, and she meant, _He'll have to_.

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><p>"Pass those," Katie whined, jabbing her finger at the basket of rolls.<p>

Santana raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Pass what?" she asked. Her words were playing dumb, but her tone sounded like a challenge.

Katie scowled, insulted that Santana would get between her and the basket of Pillsbury goodness. "The rolls," she scoffed.

As Santana relinquished the basket, Brittany's father picked up where he'd left off, undeterred. "Have you lived in Lima your whole life?" he asked, shoveling pot roast into his mouth.

Santana's attitude receded and her eyes flashed between Brittany and Brittany's parents. Brittany heard resignation lace her answer. "Mostly."

Brittany's mother finished sawing Katie's meat into bite-size pieces and pushed the plate back to her youngest daughter. "We were originally looking closer to Columbus," she rambled, "but it's just so expensive, and we wanted a bigger house for our girls." She gave Brittany a grin cheesy enough to summon a blush.

As Brittany opened her mouth to say something, glancing uneasily at Santana, her father swooped back in, pushing the words through the food in his mouth and his thick mustache. "I guess there are better schools than McKinley, but our Brittany just loved cheerleading at her old school, and McKinley's got quite a reputation for that."

"It does," Santana agreed. Brittany noticed her short, tense answers. The calculated crunch of her fork spearing a green bean. "Britt's just what the doctor ordered, since she's a gymnast."

Brittany's mother beamed, apparently impressed Santana had managed to put that together. Brittany felt the blush on her cheeks again and ate her mashed potatoes with focus as her mother gushed, "She is! Brittany is just so into all of that—dance and gymnastics and cheering. I was never much good at any of it, when I was her age, but we try to help her pursue her passion however we can."

Santana smiled politely at her plate. Brittany noticed most of the food was left untouched.

In the kitchen, as Brittany arranged their dishes in the dishwasher, she whispered to Santana, "We should leave for the studio soon."

Santana's eyes wandered away from the rows of childhood photos and the windowed spice cabinet and Katie's crayon creations taped to the refrigerator. "Yeah," she answered a little too loudly. The volume didn't cover the raw rasp in her throat.

They paused under the porch light as Brittany zipped her dance bag closed and situated the strap across her chest. She eyed Santana through her lashes. Santana stood at the edge of the deck, heel pressing the part of the boards that creaked, staring out into the dwindling light as if it held answers. Or monsters.

Brittany touched the whirlwind's shoulders and dark hair whipped around and dark eyes pinned her in place the way she was sure those hands could pin her to a wall. The thought made her throat run dry, but Santana's chest puffed out and back in, and the storm calmed when it turned back toward the setting sun. "You ready?"

They ducked into the car, lit in yellow from the last slanting rays and one dim overhead bulb. Its twin was burned out. Santana dug in the compartment by the gear shift, pulling out chapstick and applying it rapidly, then turned the key and shifted into reverse. She touched the shoulder of Brittany's seat and looked behind her to back up while Brittany fastened her seatbelt. She could almost feel the heat of Santana's fingers where they sat near her arm. The speakers crackled to life as Santana pulled onto the road and moved her hand back to the shifter; Amy Winehouse played loudly. Santana twisted a knob and the volume dulled.

The quiet hovered between comfortable and uncomfortable. The song punched along, all soul and angst, and Santana switched to the radio before they even turned off the block. "So," she said over a commercial for diluted laundry bleach, "where am I taking you?" Her eyes reflected the angled sunlight like glass.

Brittany rolled the strap of her bag between her fingers. "Um, I go to Jeanne's," she said, testing for recognition. Santana offered none, so she continued, "It's by the country club, off Fort Amanda."

Santana just nodded and fiddled with the radio tuner, finally settling on her fifth preset: a scratchy pop station. "Cool." She guided the car as if on autopilot, turning onto Brower. Her thumbs tapped to the beat of the Black Eyed Peas. It was watery through the poor reception.

Brittany touched the soft center of her palm, tracing it like a scar. She didn't see the blood anymore, but she remembered the slickness and the smell. She glanced at Santana and considered bringing the dreams up again. It was clear Santana had dreamed, too. It was clear she was hiding something.

But Brittany was hiding something, too. She curled her hand around the fingers in her palm and looked out the window at the little houses.

"Thanks for inviting me to dinner." Santana's eyes were on the road, but Brittany saw her lips in a tight line. She didn't drive as fast as Brittany had expected. No whipped turns. No roller coaster.

Brittany glanced at the stereo display as the song faded into the hosts chattering. "Sorry my parents talk so much," she said.

Santana's tongue swiped over her bottom lip, eyes scanning the traffic on West Street. "They were nice," she said, wrenching the wheel expertly into a tight turn, punching the gas and flexing her fingers on the shifter, like the car had a manual transmission. She was going faster now. "It was nice." She sounded strange and strangled.

They weaved around a slow sedan. Santana seemed to be in a hurry, though they had plenty of time before 8:00. Brittany fingered the buckle by her hip. "I think Katie's found a worthy component," she said.

Santana grunted, but Brittany picked out the ghost of a smile as Santana's head whipped around, eyeing the left lane as she switched into it. "Your family's really nice, Britt," Santana said, settling back into her seat. She seemed unable to explain it any other way, as if _nice _was the only word that didn't commit her to explanation or emotion. But Brittany could almost taste the feeling behind it, where Santana's voice hitched halfway through.

The opening chords of "Halo" cut into the DJ transition right as a light turned yellow up ahead. Santana stepped heavily on the brake, easing up just in time to prevent a rough jolt when they stopped at the line, and jabbed at her preset buttons again. Santana paused at each one. _Why does love always feel like a—Party in the U.S.—Them good girls go ba-ad._

She hesitated, something rippling along the edges of her mouth, and the light changing to green offered an excuse to draw her hand and attention away from the radio. Brittany watched those dark eyes, trying to catch them. She noticed Santana mouthing some of the words, when she thought she was turned far enough to be safe from Brittany's eyes.

After a few blocks, as Santana wheeled her left hand around to swivel them right onto Elm, her eyes snagged Brittany's while her mouth was still open, wrapped around the chorus of the song. Brittany blinked, but Santana's cheeks tinged pink and she ripped her gaze away too quickly. She touched a different preset button harshly, repeating the practiced motion of punching each one in a row, but her hand drew back in slow motion at the harsh whisper of 3OH!3.

Her eyes flashed back to Brittany's, dark and swimming this time, like a storm at night, and the radio garbled, _She wants to touch me, wo-oah_.

Santana looked away to turn onto the next street, but Brittany felt her stomach turning around, like it'd heard its name called from behind. _B-b-b-bruises cover your arms._ She studied Santana's tight grip on the shifter and her wispy hair and her wild eyes scanning the road with an assured expertise and she thought about the Amy Winehouse CD.

Then she heard something, like a tickle against her eardrums, low and rough, and recognized Santana's throat-voice like a nail scraping gently against the inside of her belly. "_Just another girl, alone at the bar…_"

Brittany looked away from Santana, feeling almost embarrassed, like she'd accidentally read a page of her diary or walked in on her naked. The sound of Santana singing, though—it nestled inside her like Lord Tubbington snuggling into a blanket in the sun. It curled around the thought of Amy Winehouse's scratchy sadness and 3OH!3's raspy bitterness. How tornado had lashed out at the love songs to get back to this.

Brittany recognized the country club a block up on the right and swallowed to clear the thoughts out of her throat. "Up on the left," she said. "Oak Hill Court."

Santana killed the radio, pulled into the street, and turned at the lot Brittany indicated. "Huh," she said as she shifted into park. "I never knew this was back here."

"Yeah," Brittany said with a shrug and a small smile. She stepped out of the car and slung her bag over her shoulder.

Santana's voice made her dip down, ducking her head under the lip of the roof and bracing her forearm along the car door. "What?" she asked.

Santana's eyes were hurricanes, now. They looked into her like blue food dye into a cup of water. Like Santana was seeping into her. "Call me later, if you…" Brittany remembered the locker room, and saying she didn't patrol after dance. And Santana's skeptical look. And her silence. Santana looked like she remembered that, too. "Well." Those eyes flashed. "If you need me."

Brittany swallowed and managed a little nod. She backed away, pushed the door shut, and walked toward the studio. She looked back and saw the LeBaron swoop in a graceful circle. She could hear Amy Winehouse rolling against the windows as Santana drove back onto the road and out of sight.

That night, muscles tight from dancing and cheeks humming red from a cold shower, Brittany stood at the edge of her bed and stared at the stakes and bottle of holy water in her bag. She looked at her phone on the bed and tugged the drawstrings tight in her hands. Her phone was silent. She picked it up and pressed two buttons to unlock it. The background picture—Lord Tubbington—seemed too bright, stabbing at her eyes in the darkness. She thumbed over to _Contacts_ and scrolled to _Santana_.

Brittany glanced at the window, already open, and breathed in the night air slipping over the sill. She absently traced the strings of her bag with the fingers of her free hand. Her phone's screen dimmed. She swallowed and pressed the green button. The same question shot back at her, the one she felt like she was always asking herself. _Call Santana?_

She looked back out at the night. Back at her bag. Back at the phone in her palm. She thought about the nightmare, and the sickly slick of blood slaked across her hands. She thought about Santana in shadow, outrunning her. She thought about _him_. And she pressed the red button. Stared at the old picture of Lord Tubbington, in the living room in Indianapolis.

She locked the phone, grabbed her bag, and climbed out the window.


	7. Clues

Thanks for the feedback! And for sticking with spottier updates. School keeps wanting me to write papers and stuff. Standard disclaimers; written for ego, not money. Chapter title: Liz Phair's "Closer To You."

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><p>"God, his band is so shitty," Santana scoffed, taking in the group onstage with a scowl.<p>

Quinn followed her sightline and shrugged mildly. "No worse than anybody else that plays here."

Brittany took in the confident smirk, casual hold on the microphone, close-cut Mohawk. Puck smiled at the girls at the edge of the stage, all teeth and waggling eyebrows, but his eyes traced back to the tornado sitting at the table between Brittany and Quinn. When he winked at her, Santana sneered and rolled her eyes.

"They're not that bad," Brittany said, glancing at Quinn. Quinn was disinterested, sipping her iced tea and staring with amusement at a girl dancing badly in a patterned yellow dress.

Santana shook her head and sipped her root beer. "We've really gotta get fakes," she commented, looking at her drink as if it had offended her.

"They know how old we are, Santana," Quinn pointed out. "We've been coming here since we turned fifteen." Before Santana could answer or protest, Quinn smirked and pointed at the girl in the dress. "Check out Yentl." A boy in a varsity jacket had spilled his drink down Bad Dancer's front, leaving a large wet patch across her chest and stomach, and she was yelling at him in a shrill voice. The girl quieted, cowed, when the boy leaned over her and gestured violently. He stalked away.

Santana looked at the girl with glinting eyes. She grinned and chuckled; she raised her glass and tipped it slightly, as if drinking a toast. "Smooth, Stubbles," she called over the sound of the band, and Dress looked over and huffed indignantly. She stomped toward the restrooms and Santana laughed, took a sip of her drink, and turned back to Quinn. With another shake of the head, she lamented, "Why do they let her in, anyway?"

Quinn shrugged and commiserated, "I just hope she's not contagious."

Santana snorted. "Yeah, seriously. They don't make meds strong enough to fight off a schnoz like that." Brittany noticed a strange flicker at the corner of Quinn's mouth, but as Brittany parted her lips to speak, Santana's voice tugged her eyes back to the right. "So how was dance, anyway?"

"Dance?" Brittany blinked, realizing it hadn't come up during practice. Coach Sue had been in a bad mood, even though it was the last day of clinic, and they'd run suicides for so long that even when they were changing in the locker room, they barely had the breath to plan to meet up at the Bronze. "It was alright," she said, and when she made eye contact with Santana, she saw what lingered beneath. _You didn't call_. Her mouth felt dry, so she drank two large gulps of water and shrugged.

Whirlwind settled into her chair a little. "What kind of dance do you do?"

Brittany glanced at Quinn—paying polite interest, noticing only their words—and answered, "Jazz and modern."

Santana looked genuinely interested. She set her cup on the table and stood, offering her hand to Brittany, eyes glistening strangely. "Can you show me?"

For an instant, Brittany stared at Santana's soft palm; listened to the beat of the music and Puck's singing; remembered the smell of the grass back at the cemetery and how the stars reflected off Santana's eyes. She touched Santana's hand, gripping lightly with her fingers, but her voice came out more hesitant. "It's not really the kind of dance I can do here." Hurricane seemed to consider that, but it was like their frozen hands had committed them, and Brittany felt her blood humming too, against Santana's warm skin. "We can still dance, though," Brittany said, without realizing it.

Santana glanced at Quinn, apparently not forgetting herself entirely, and asked if she wanted to dance. Quinn smiled but shook her head; "I'm exhausted," she explained, and offered to watch their table.

On the floor, amid the throng of people, Santana's eyes danced close, as close as that night on the mausoleum roof. Brittany moved gently, lacking the space and energy to show off, and tornado stayed close, hand braced against Brittany's hipbone. As the band picked up speed, whirlwind pushed up against her to whisper in her ear, "C'mon, show me your stuff."

Breath against her eardrum sent a shiver down the base of her spine, and she touched Santana's waist by the bottom of her ribs. "No space," she replied, and Santana's head was still hovering near her shoulder, so it felt like she was tucking the words right into the shell of Santana's ear. "Not that kind of dancing," she added.

Dark eyes flashed at her again, dizzying under the erratic lights, pushing into her like spades. Santana's body pressed against hers—maybe closer than it needed to, even against the crowd. Brittany felt her blood pumping again, like last time. She felt really drunk and really awake all at once. Instead of replying—or pointing out that Brittany maybe _was_ showing her stuff a little bit, the way she twisted against Santana and gripped nails against skin—Santana returned her fervor, eyes pinned to Brittany's, brushing their thighs together.

At the end of the song, the spell broke. Santana's head whipped toward the stage, and Brittany followed her wide eyes to see a hungry grin painted across Puck's face, pointed right at them. She glanced at Santana—gaze murky, lip tucked between her teeth, worry pushing her eyebrows together—and Santana turned away, gruffly, saying "Let's go" and walking toward the table.

Quinn was tapping keys on her phone when they slid back into their seats. Santana looked only at Quinn. "Texting Finnocence?"

"My mother," Quinn replied, chilly as the ice in her glass. She flipped the phone closed and set it on the table. Her finger traced the rim of her cup.

Puck bounded up to their table and slapped his palms and forearms against it. He leaned his shoulders forward, wagging his eyebrows up and down at Quinn, Brittany, and then Santana. "Ladies," he crooned, sparing Brittany a second glance before looking over Santana thoroughly.

Santana scoffed and rolled her eyes. Quinn looked similarly unimpressed. "Puck," she said, as if daring him to deliver even the most mildly interesting of commentary.

"Your band still sucks," Santana said. Like she was tossing a gum wrapper in the trash.

"You seemed to like it okay," Puck shot back, trading barb for barb with a smug grin. He kept looking at Santana's hair and the neckline of her shirt.

Her lip curled, just slightly. "You wish," she snapped. "Just because you can dance to it doesn't make it good."

"And dance you _did_," he replied smoothly, shifting his leer to Brittany—up and down her body—and back to Santana. Something about his easy movement and sharp, shark eyes fit with Santana, her bayonet stare and powerful body, the way she surveyed the crowd on the dance floor or the whispering breeze in the empty graveyard. Their eyes scraped against each other, hard and edged. Brittany could see the jut of Santana's jaw. Like she was tasting the same thing that made her jerk away on the dance floor.

Tornado rolled her eyes and sipped her root beer. "Whatever. Are you guys done yet?"

Puck glanced over his shoulder at the stage, standing straighter and setting his palms on the table edge. "We're just taking a break. We still have a few songs left on the set."

By the time he turned back, Santana was standing, gulping the last of her drink and kicking the chair back under the table. "Fuck that," she muttered darkly. Quinn, Brittany, and Puck all blinked at the sudden harshness of her voice and the chair leg scraping against the floor. "I'm out."

She stepped away and Brittany hesitated. She glanced at Quinn and Puck—both shrugging at each other, like this was normal, like it happened all the time—and got up. She jogged to Santana and caught her wrist before she could duck out the door.

Dark eyes flashed at her, full of—something. "What about—you know"—Brittany faltered and lowered her voice—"patrolling?"

Santana stared into her like a spotlight. The instant's pause felt long and heavy. "I got it," she answered, and her voice was steady and strange. She shook Brittany's hand off and swept outside.

Back at the table, Quinn was texting again. Puck had wandered back onto the stage to fiddle with his guitar and talk to the other band members. Quinn put her phone down as Brittany took her seat. Brittany took in her careful, bored expression. "Finn?" she asked, although Quinn had already denied it.

Quinn looked at her the way she and Santana seemed to constantly: like she was hiding something, and if they could just figure out what, everything Brittany said would begin to make sense. Brittany wasn't sure what they were trying to find, but they were always trying.

"Yeah," Quinn answered finally, and Brittany wondered why she'd lied to Santana before. She wondered if Quinn and Santana had lied to her the way they lied to each other.

Brittany glanced at the door and back at Quinn, asking without speaking. Quinn's lips twitched back and forth, once, and her eyes canted to the side thoughtfully. She shrugged and opened her mouth and her phone buzzed against the table. She opened it, scanned the screen, and typed a response. Brittany looked back at the stage, where Puck and his friends gripped their microphones and yelled out into the crowd.

The _clack _of plastic against the table brought her eyes back to Quinn. Quinn looked coolly at the crowd around them. Brittany searched her face; Quinn's gaze landed on the stage. "So—what's their deal?" Brittany asked.

Quinn's eyes ripped away from Puck and back to Brittany. Brittany could see she was startled, even under the layers of calm painted over it. "Who, Santana and Puck?" She paused, brows pinned high on her forehead, and when Brittany didn't reply, she shrugged. "I mean—" She considered for a moment. Shrugged again. "They're getting naked together," she said with a wrinkled nose, like that was all she could verify with confidence.

Brittany eyed Puck on the stage. Considering. She looked back to Quinn's pinched face. Like she'd bitten down on a sour apple. But there was sadness too. Like she got the apple instead of a cupcake.

"Why do you ask?"

Quinn's voice dragged Brittany from her thoughts. Brittany shrugged; she answered, honestly, "I dunno." She thought of Puck's gleaming eyes and Santana's, reflecting them like a dark window. "I guess I don't get it." It was a lie. She could see their jagged edges, matching up with scratches and sparks, like bits of metal scraping together. But she couldn't say that to Quinn.

"Me neither," she said, apparently disinterested. But she glanced at Puck, and again Brittany caught that off-color look, the flicker across her face like a pencil rolling off a desk, out of reach.

Brittany glanced at Quinn's quiet phone. "Is Finn coming?" she asked, and Quinn turned away from the stage.

"Maybe," she said, and Brittany couldn't tell if Quinn was mad or Finn was, but someone had to be to turn a _yes _into a _maybe_.

She didn't ask. Another look at Puck and his white teeth and thick eyes and Brittany was out of her seat, looking at the door and the trail left by the hurricane, now some time ago. "I gotta go," she said, sparing Quinn a glance just long enough to see her lips part in confusion. "Tired," she added, unable to think of a better excuse. She darted from the table before Quinn could ask.

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><p>Brittany jogged all the way to the cemetery; her long strides halved the time. She scanned the empty sidewalks for Santana, but whirlwind's head start put her far out of Brittany's sights.<p>

At the fence, Brittany peered into the graveyard. Her eyes found Santana's shadowy outline easily, like they were pulled that way by a string. Brittany scaled the iron spokes and walked cautiously. Tornado stood oddly still. Like she was listening to something.

When Brittany got close, Santana whirled and pounced. Two long lightning strides and Brittany was on her back. The point of a wooden stake hovered an inch above her sternum; Santana's hips pressed hard against Brittany's, pinning her to the grass, and black hair grazed Brittany's face in the lackluster breeze. The dark eyes above her melted from anger into surprise. Their faces were almost as close as they had been, that night on the mausoleum.

Santana reeled back onto her heels and her feet, like she'd been socked in the jaw. Brittany tipped her body up and braced her elbows in the mud. Santana muttered "Sorry" while Brittany asked, "Jumpy much?"

Their voices muddled together in the air. Brittany got to her feet.

"What are you doing here?"

She spoke the way she'd spoken to Puck. Like a rubber band snapping against skin.

Brittany flicked her eyes over Santana's face and got to her feet. "Kicking ass and looking hot doing it," she parroted. But Santana's words tasted strange in her mouth. They came out uneasy and uneven.

Santana looked at her strangely. That figuring-out look. After a pause that hung between them, Santana replied, "Well, I think you're doing it wrong." She looked at the grass stain on Brittany's elbow, barely visible in the darkness.

Brittany turned, glancing back toward the Bronze. Then she looked at her feet. Then she looked back up into the hurricane. Why _had_ she come? She searched herself, but found no answer. Instead, into the stretched silence, she asked, "Why did you leave?"

It was hard to read those eyes in the dark. They scurried away from her. "Got bored," Santana said, but her voice wavered.

Brittany took a step forward, into the quiet. Tornado watched her warily, and when she took a second step, Santana moved back to compensate. Almost instinctively. "I told you not to come," said whirlwind, harsh and defensive.

Frozen in place, Brittany thought about the night on the mausoleum, and Puck's eyes on Santana's chest, and the way Santana tore away from her on the dance floor like she was ripping a Band-Aid off a gouged knee. "I got bored too," she said, shrugging, because she could tell that the truth would send the hurricane another step backward.

"Oh." Santana was still stiff against the gentle summer air and the quiet night. Like maybe it was Brittany she was afraid of. Her arms wrapped around her stomach.

Brittany stepped forward again, tentatively. Santana stood rooted before her. Brittany closed the space cautiously, then reached out to touch Santana's wrist. "Santana," she began, pulling gently at Santana's folded arm. "Listen, about—"

Her words and breath blew out of her in a gasp when a heavy weight slammed against her back. She pitched forward, toppling Santana beneath her, and once again found herself nose to nose with an agitated Slayer. The weight shifted off her and Brittany scrambled to her feet, with Santana popping up beside her an instant later.

A red varsity jacket. One of the football guys, big and wide and lumbering, staring at them with creepy, hollow eyes. Not dead eyes, though. This guy was as alive as he'd been at practice. He groaned, teeth clenched and fists balled, "Fucking—"

Hurricane struck him like lightning, with a kick hard across the face. He grunted, cupping his cheek, and swung out at her. She melted away from his fist like liquid. Football seemed distracted, though; he stumbled back, swinging more in defense than aggression. Santana lashed out again, knuckles peppering his thick belly, but he took her hits and shuffled around. He batted at her flying arms like he was trying to disengage.

Brittany stood, frozen in what felt a little like awe, until Pigskin managed to clap his clumsy palms against whirlwind's shoulders, shoving her away awkwardly. Santana reeled, resisting the inertia but restricted by the laws of physics and the hundred or so pounds he had on her. In those spare seconds, as Brittany lunged forward to batter him a bit herself, he spun abruptly and sprinted away from them. Well, it was more a slow jog, but given his size, he was probably approaching his maximal velocity.

Brittany spun and ran straight into Santana. They separated again—though at least this time, Brittany noticed, it didn't involve new grass stains on her knees—and Brittany let her hands settle on Santana's biceps while tornado craned her neck, watching Varsity trundle away over Brittany's shoulder.

"That was weird." Santana's voice sounded limp, like her rounds with the living punching bag had somehow drained the fight out of her. Brittany suspected that was impossible, but for that reason or another, Santana seemed reluctant to pursue Meatloaf.

"Yeah," Brittany murmured. She could feel the quivering muscles calming under her hands.

Santana looked away from the space over Brittany's shoulder. Her dark eyes settled into Brittany's. "This probably means more trouble," she said.

Brittany looked back, searching those eyes for hints. Clues. Answers. "Yeah," she repeated.

Finally, Santana looked away. "I guess we're done, then." She folded her arms again, hugging below her ribs, and drew back from Brittany's grasp.

Brittany let her hands fall to her sides. Done with what? Santana glanced at her. "We can go see Beiste tomorrow."

"Okay."

Silence. Thick. Hesitant. Like tears clogging her throat.

"Well," tornado said, letting the word end at an awkward pitch. "See you tomorrow."

She turned and left.

Brittany swallowed, glancing at the emptiness around her and the dark storm rolling away from her. To herself, in a small voice, she whispered, "Guess we're done, then."


	8. Strangers

Thanks again for the feedback, guys! Glad you're sticking with this rollercoaster.

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><p>During a day spent making a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with Katie, pulling weeds with her dad, going grocery shopping with her mom, and checking out a motocross track two towns over to ask about joining club, Brittany had drafted and deleted something on the order of two dozen texts to Santana.<p>

She'd woken with a glimpse of a dream clinging to her like a damp shirt or the smell of garlic: just the sight of Santana's face, up close under Brittany's body on the grass in the graveyard, lips parted and eyes swirling and breath coiling up like a caress. It wasn't the flash-bang flavor of a Slayer prophecy, but the scene was vivid and hot and glued to Brittany's eyelids, and it felt like it had to mean something_—_how it haunted her in slow-motion all day.

So, a few hours before dinner, Brittany stared at her phone screen again, tapping the arrow keys every so often to keep the LEDs bright against the sun streaming through the shades. _wen r we—_Delete. _do u wanna—_Delete. _wat r u doi—_Delete.

Brittany closed the draft and flopped backward on the bed, legs still curled like a pretzel and stretching her hips comfortably. She rolled her back and held the phone up in front of her again. She scoffed at herself and scrolled through her contacts, hitting the buttons decisively and holding the phone to her ear.

God, that voice. Even rough and irritated and brusque and translated through the tinny phone speaker, Santana's "What?" sounded so nice in Brittany's ears.

Shuffling in the background. Brittany'd steeled herself for this. Or Puck's name. "Hi, um, I was wondering when you wanna go see Coach Beiste." Brittany tucked her lips between her teeth.

Brittany could hear movement again, and a quiet _thud_, but instead of yelling at Puck, she heard choppy Spanish on Santana's end. "Say what?" Santana directed into the phone. "Who is this?" Before Brittany could answer, Santana must have looked at her screen, because she continued, "Brittany. What's going on?"

Shifting her eyes across her ceiling, Brittany repeated, "Coach Beiste. We said we should go today."

"Oh." A beat. "Right. When do you wanna go?"

Brittany looked at her clock. 3:27. "Um. When can you go?"

"I can—" Santana's voice cut aside again, and Brittany heard more muffled Spanish, slick and hot even through the cell transmission and what must've been Santana's thumb over the receiver. The Spanish rolled in and out for a minute or so, quiet like Brittany was listening from inside a glass bottle, before Santana turned back. Her words sounded too loud and too clear now. "Sorry. I can. Um." She seemed disoriented. "I can pick you up, if you want. At four."

Brittany frowned at the princess stickers Katie had pressed onto her ceiling two years prior. "Whatever works for you," she said. Her tone sounded strange, even to herself. "You know the house number?"

"Duh."

Dial tone.

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><p>At four ten, Brittany slipped into Santana's LeBaron and swiped the seatbelt across her front. Santana was backing out of the driveway before Brittany had settled her purse between her ankles on the floor, like moving quickly was another version of apologizing for being late.<p>

The stereo was off this time. Brittany stared at the digital clock—numbers murky behind the dirty plastic screen—and breathed deep. The car had that thick smell of being owned and used and abused; an overlay of stale sweat from workout clothes, of lingering grease from fast food fries, of three kinds of perfume and the air freshener that was probably there when the first owner drove it off the lot. Underneath it was a soft, dark scent, the one that snuck out under Santana's clothes that Brittany had only really noticed when Meathead had knocked them over onto the grass. She'd never been close enough to smell it, before—like Santana was trying to drown it out with shampoo and laundry detergent. But the car had soaked it up.

Santana was quiet. Brittany let her body jerk with the car; Santana jabbed the gas and brake pedals in staccato beats, unlike her fluid maneuvering on the way to the dance studio. Brittany thought about asking about Santana's day, or how she was, or maybe even about that other thing—their bodies pressed together in the grass, their eyes pressed together on the mausoleum, their breaths pressed together on the dance floor—but before she could settle her muddled thoughts through a sieve, Santana had punched into a parking space like a hole punch through a train ticket. She turned the car off and stood outside it, bag slung over her shoulder, while Brittany tried to catch up.

"How was your day?" Brittany asked as she fumbled. She'd waited too long to ask; now the question sounded strange in the air between them, like a piñata waiting to be burst open by a baseball bat. Santana stared her up and down, waiting pointedly until Brittany closed the car door to press the lock button on her keychain.

Tornado didn't answer; just turned and stalked toward the school.

Brittany jogged after her. "Not good, huh?" she babbled, nervous she'd made it even worse. Whatever _it _was. "I made pancakes with my sister. And pulled weeds and stuff." Santana was still silent, but her silence seemed a little softer, and she didn't have that pinch above her nose like when she first showed up. Like at the Bronze, when Puck had looked Brittany up and down and said _dance _like he meant something else.

So Brittany kept going. "And my mom took me to the motocross track. The guy there was super nice. And the track is awesome. They have a club and everything, and it's pretty cheap I guess. And Coach Sue said I should keep doing it so I can use it in stunts and stuff."

That dug Santana out of whatever hole she was stuck in. She looked at Brittany like she really was inside a hole, squinting up at the sun from safe, earthy shadow. "You do motocross?" She sounded doubtful, but also a little impressed. Maybe.

Brittany nodded. Her breath caught in her throat, afraid the wrong reaction would shove Santana back down into the ground like in Whackamole.

Whirlwind opened the school door, holding it absently for Brittany to go through. "That's cool," Santana said. Sincerely.

Brittany blushed a little and smiled. They walked the shadowy halls toward Beiste's office. "I love riding," Brittany admitted, instead of saying _thank you_. She figured Santana probably got it. "It's totally awesome."

She opened her mouth to continue, but the echo of a muffled conversation stopped her. The sound buffeted against the metal of the lockers and she glanced over to share her confusion with Santana. Santana shrugged and they slowed their approach; with their careful heel-toe steps, their sneakers' rubber soles were silent against the linoleum.

At the door, the words were still mostly unclear. Brittany shrugged at Santana and twisted the handle, calling, "Coach Beiste?"

Brittany's feet rooted to the floor. Beiste was at her desk, talking to a tall blonde woman. Her hair was long and loose, like in the Slayer dream the night after the mausoleum. Brittany blinked. Almost like.

Santana was close at her back. Beiste and Blonde glanced between them. Blonde offered a crooked smile and rippled her fingers in a wave. It was actually a double wave, Brittany thought—a wave like a greeting and a wave like her fingers were mini sports fans doing _the wave _in the bleachers.

"Ladies, this is Holly Holliday," Beiste said, looking at Blonde sideways. Brittany couldn't read Beiste's expression; she looked wary, but only a little.

"You must be Brittany," Holly said, offering her hand. Brittany shook it in shellshock. Holly's skin was cool and soft, like she'd just put lotion on. But Holly was already looking away, at—tornado. Santana's body was still like stone, but her eyes were glittering under the fluorescents, blazing into Holly's like a twister burrowing a crater in the dust in Kansas.

Holly almost looked scared. She stood calm and cool—cool as her hand had been—but she couldn't hide the way her eyes rippled, like water after a pebble's thrown in. Her eyes almost looked like Brittany's. The thought made her uncomfortable.

Santana folded her arms across her chest. Brittany could see her jaw muscles wrenching her teeth against each other. Hurricane was pissed.

"Santana," Holly was saying gently, as if there was any level of gentle that could soften Santana. Brittany knew that was pretty impossible at this point, and she'd barely known whirlwind for a week. Holly was supposed to know her from before.

Holly seemed to realize Santana wasn't into it. "Maybe we can talk outside for a sec?" Holly glanced at Beiste, who shrugged because she didn't really mind, and Brittany, who shrugged because she wasn't sure why she was supposed to have an opinion. With a helpless, fearful flicker of a smile, Holly took Santana's wrist and led her outside.

The door clicked shut. After meeting Beiste's eyes—she looked as uneasy as Brittany felt—Brittany crossed the few feet to the door and pressed her ear to the wood. They must have walked further away. Brittany only heard the faint bursts of sound as they hit the lockers and the hallway walls, the way she and Santana had heard the Watchers from outside.

"Anything?"

Beiste was standing next to her. Brittany straightened up and shook her head. She looked at Beiste sidelong. "What happened?"

Beiste's face shifted into the same uncomfortable embarrassment she'd worn at the picnic table, trying to explain why she hadn't brought up Santana during the first three months of summer. She retreated toward her desk, shifting papers and books to avoid looking Brittany in the eye. "I called her," she said after a moment.

"Why?"

Beiste looked over. Something skittered across her face too fast for Brittany to catch. "Well, I called about the talisman," she said with that hot, ramping tone that meant she resented explaining herself, "but I really didn't feel comfortable dealing with Santana without at least asking Holly if she'd think about coming back." She was gesturing vaguely at the door. As if in answer, the voices humming outside turned into one voice, louder, beating inarticulately against the walls and the wood.

"Did you, like, at least casually mention it to Santana?" Brittany knew the answer. Her irritation was creeping into her voice. But she knew this wouldn't go away. Santana's stony stiffness would stick around way too long. And a statue of a Slayer was only marginally better than a brick in terms of slaying assistance. And that was definitely Santana yelling in the hallway. Or not. Now it was quiet again.

Beiste sighed. "What would she have said?" The answer was implicit, but clear: _Whatever she just yelled at Holly_.

Brittany's eyes danced away. She noticed her arms had crossed over her stomach. Her fingers were digging into her sides. "You should've said," she finally mumbled.

Beiste opened her mouth to speak but got cut off by the door slamming into Brittany's back. Brittany stumbled aside, rubbing the small of her back and wincing. Santana pushed the door open more tentatively, Holly close behind her. "Sorry," said Santana sheepishly.

"It's okay," Brittany said, but she knew the concern on her face and the way she glanced at Holly turned it into more of a question. _Are you okay?_

Santana's eyes said a lot of things, but none of them answered the question.

"So," Santana said, kicking the door shut as Holly turned to stand by Beiste, "we came because we ran into some weird shit on patrol last night."

Beiste bristled at whirlwind's tone or language—or both—but Holly seemed unfazed. "What kind of weirdness?" she edited seamlessly.

Santana's face had hardened back into narrowed eyes and pursed lips and a crinkled nose. Her arms crossed proudly across her chest—a challenge. Not the self-hug Brittany kept returning to. "Some meathead ran into us on the way to Country Buffet," she sneered.

Beiste frowned. Her hand tensed into a fist against the desktop. "A football guy?"

Santana nodded. Brittany added helpfully, "He didn't seem like he wanted to fight us. Once Santana started hitting him, he kind of grunted and ran away." She glanced at sandstorm for corroboration.

"Not that manly," Santana agreed disparagingly. "Scurried away like a stuck pig." Her dark eyes soaked in Beiste's anxiety and she added, "He wasn't a vamp or anything. Fully functional."

Beiste's knit brows turned up in confusion. "Wait—so this was just one of my guys? Out for a stroll in Shady Acres in the middle of the night?" She sounded doubtful.

Brittany shared a glance with Santana. "I dunno," Brittany said slowly. "He was acting pretty weird. But, like, he wasn't dead. Undead, I mean." Her uncertainty was tripping her speech again. Like trying to walk with an extra foot.

"Weird shit, like I said," Santana cut in, almost like she sensed Brittany's discomfort. She looked at Holly instead of Beiste. "Seemed pretty fishy to me. Maybe supernatural."

Holly nodded and clapped her hands. "Well," she said, "we'll definitely look into it. A spell could cause something like that, but it would usually make its subjects search for something, if they aren't turning violent." Her voice lilted almost artificially, like she was trying to keep little kids engaged in a discussion about the merits of eating celery.

"They're a little violent," Brittany blurted. All eyes turned back to her and she glanced at each set, one at a time. She looked at Santana. "I mean, that one guy was getting up in that girl's face at the Bronze, remember?"

Santana blinked thoughtfully. Realization spread across her face and she turned back to the Watchers, like she was legitimizing and repackaging Brittany's message. "That's right. I mean, they're more confrontational than usual. Maybe the guy that attacked us just didn't expect me to fight back." Under her breath, she added poisonously, "Dicks."

Holly and Beiste looked at each other. They seemed worried. Brittany shifted her weight from one foot to the other; Santana moved, just slightly, so their arms brushed together. Brittany stilled and glanced over, catching Santana's eyes for one electric second.

It broke when Holly spoke up. "We'll look into it, but there's not a lot we can do until we know more." She sounded apologetic.

Beiste added, "Keep a sharp eye out, though. I'll watch my guys on the field; you watch 'em when classes start." She sounded almost guilty when she claimed them: _my guys_. Like she couldn't believe she hadn't seen it herself. "And definitely patrol tonight." She pointed at Santana and then at Brittany, making harsh eye contact with each of them.

It felt like they were being scolded. Brittany nodded obediently; Santana rolled her eyes. "Whatever," snapped cyclone, glaring at both Watchers but stopping on Holly. "Can we go?"

Holly's face crinkled around her eyes, like she felt hurt, but she just shrugged and strung an easy smile across her face. "Yeah, go ahead."

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><p>Santana had them twelve feet from the parking lot before Brittany could even catch her breath. Brittany's eyes were trapped in the strands of black hair, blowing in the wind that had picked up while they were inside. She wanted to ask what happened—in the hallway, in the past—but her nervous, thudding heart and Santana's gaze lighting on anything but Brittany convinced her to keep quiet.<p>

As Santana pulled the silent car out of the parking space, Brittany realized she was about to be dropped off. And although she had realized she couldn't summon the courage to ask what had happened with Holly, she knew just as certainly that she wasn't ready to sit in her room and stew about it, either.

So she swallowed and said, "What're you up to tonight?"

It caught Santana off guard. Her eyes relaxed and darted to Brittany. "Huh?" She had lifted her foot off the brake, ready to turn toward Brittany's house out of the lot, but instead of hitting the gas, she jerked back down on the brake. The car rocked back. Santana's brows pushed back together. She scrutinized Brittany's face. "I have to"—she squinted, as if to make sure she'd interpreted the question correctly—"grab some stuff at the grocery store. Why?"

She sounded so suspicious. Brittany shrugged and said, mildly, "I was gonna ask if I could hang out with you a little." She tried to take in all of Santana's face without moving her eyes too much. "Katie has a soccer game, so I don't have to be home for dinner."

Santana looked away, out the windshield, but her eyes fixed into the distance. Brittany could see her smooth-faced fear, how it pushed her ears back a little and fixed her jaw in place and shimmered in her eyes. She was trying so hard not to show it, it was easy to see her trying. Brittany wondered what she saw in her head that was making her so afraid.

Dark eyes flitted to Brittany's and away again. Clearer. Focused. But still skittish. "You really wanna come grocery shopping with me?" she asked. She said it like she was rolling her eyes, but her voice shook. Like she was hoping her tone would make Brittany say no. Like she was afraid Brittany would say yes.

Brittany smiled and answered, "Yeah," almost too brightly. To compensate.

Those eyes stared deep into her. Santana's lip caught on her teeth, like a ton of words were trapped in her mouth and she was trying to pick the right ones before they fell out. She looked like she was going to resist again, but Brittany felt that warm gaze graze her still-wide smile, and Santana's face smoothed out like a bedspread under a firm palm. "Yeah, okay."

Just like that, tornado was punching the gas, left hand firm against the wheel, tearing away from McKinley and Brittany's house and heading east. Minutes and blocks ticked by in silence. Brittany glanced at the radio. In the same moment, Santana touched the dial and brought the speakers back to life. The stereo whirred sickly and spun Alanis Morissette back into life, catching the thick edge to her voice in the midst of the chorus: —_Some patience. A way to calm the angry voice._

Santana lashed out again, flicking through her six preset stations—more love songs, which pinched tsunami's lips into a scowl, and two of the same advertisement for a family cell phone plan—before returning to the CD, almost in defeat. She twisted the volume way down, but her thumb drummed the steering wheel and her lips framed the words perfectly.

She caught Brittany looking at her and sucked her lips into her mouth as she turned into Daley's Discount Groceries. At four forty-five on Saturday, the lot was mostly empty. Santana parked and twisted the ignition off almost immediately, cutting off Alanis howling _A way to get my hands untied_. She leapt out of the seat and slammed the door shut before Brittany even undid her seatbelt.

"Come on, _vamos_," sandstorm urged, locking the car with the key fob with an over-the-shoulder flourish. Brittany caught up at the automatic doors. Santana shot the motion sensor a suspicious glance as they passed and grabbed a basket from an alcove to the right.

Brittany looked at the row of battered green carts. "Don't you want a cart?"

A shrug. "Not getting that much," Santana said, stepping into the store, but she seemed to sense Brittany waiting. She turned, her fingers flexing on the basket handle. Her brows pushed together and she looked over Brittany's face carefully. The figuring-out look. "Do you want a cart?" she asked. She sounded almost _tentative_.

Brittany fought the grin bubbling up in her chest. "Well, then you can push 'em and ride 'em down the aisles," she said, shrugging like it wasn't that important. It wasn't; it was just fun.

After a beat too long, a small, almost careful smile spread across Santana's face. "Yeah, okay," she allowed, stacking the basket back with its brethren and gripping the edge of the cart when Brittany pushed one her way. Brittany braced a foot on the crossbeam and pushed off, riding the cart like a scooter, and Santana actually _giggled_, jogging every few steps to keep up. "C'mon, you nut," she said needlessly, pulling a crumpled, folded bit of paper from her back pocket. She tugged at the front of the cart to steer Brittany toward Aisle 4.


	9. Dinner

Thanks to my beta SunshineTuna and everybody reading/reviewing. For updates on story progress, etc, I also cross post on tumblr under ehefic. Enjoy!

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><p>As they put the plastic bags in the back of Santana's car—only three of them, mostly microwavable food and a pack of tortillas and milk and a smaller bag of fruit—Santana's hand slowed suddenly, in the midst of tucking the half-gallon into the corner made by the taillight. Brittany watched anxiety slither around those dark eyes, flicking them around the contents of the trunk.<p>

"What's wrong?"

Tornado's head snapped toward her. "Nothing," she blurted, sharp and defensive. She slammed the lid down and stalked to the driver's seat. Brittany hesitated, surprised, before trailing to the passenger side and settling beside her. Whirlwind had the car started and was switching anxiously through the six worthless radio stations. "God, why can't they play some good music in this fucking town?" Santana swore. Her black nail polish flashed as she jumped among the preset buttons.

"You don't have to play anything." Brittany twisted her hands together in her lap. Santana didn't want music she liked, or she'd play her CD. She wanted something loud and catchy to drown out their conversation. Probably something she wouldn't accidentally start singing to.

_Just another girl_. The memory of that rasp made Brittany squirm against the seat. That and Santana's too-long silence.

Santana turned the radio back off with a soft sigh. Brittany waited. Santana gripped the steering wheel and twisted her hands forward and back. Staring at the blinking LED image of an unbuckled passenger.

Her breath came out in a gush. With her eyes still on the flashing red icon, she said, "I've gotta put the milk in the fridge."

Brittany stared. She watched Santana's face, sure it would reveal what she'd missed. Finally—probably a little too late—she agreed, "Yeah." She glanced toward the trunk, but her eyes pulled back to Santana. "Unless you need funky milk instead."

This sigh had a laugh at its edges. "Right," she said, and her voice sounded a little less tight. Whirlwind came back to life, shifting into reverse and guiding them fluidly out of the lot and onto the street.

Her dark eyes kept drawing back to the clock as they drove; Brittany copied her the first few times, but the difference between 5:38 and 5:39 couldn't keep her interest the way Santana did. Her elbow braced against the car door. The anxiety at the edge of her eyelids when the clock changed. Her free hand pushing her hair back carelessly.

The humble storefronts faded almost immediately into tired two-story houses. The tired houses shifted into dilapidated ones, white paint dirtied and peeling, windows askew. After another few blocks, the yards followed suit, fading from a determined dull green to brown patches to, finally, a scratchy, dry tan with life's detritus strewn near the front stoops and the driveways. Trash cans or broken toys. At one corner, two little boys chased each other over a discarded, shredded tire.

Santana was avoiding her eyes. Tendons rippled on her forearm as she forced the wheel around to turn down the next street.

Hurricane held the steering wheel taut and the car curved onto the first driveway—a practiced, perfected calculation. The tight circle matched her tight expression. She let the wheel correct itself, palm skimming over the pleather, and inertia carried the car over cracked asphalt. They slid alongside the dull gray house toward a small garage; just before a pothole, Santana swerved them off the pavement and onto a parking space of dead grass. She shut off the ignition and verily leapt out of her seat, shutting the door before Brittany could catch those dark eyes.

Brittany clicked the belt and the door and scooted out of the car. Santana was gathering the grocery bags. Eyes pinned to their contents. Like she hadn't chosen all the items herself.

A child's shriek and a revving engine cut through the quiet. Brittany glanced over her shoulder—head whipping with Slayer apprehension—but tall, scraggly hedges blocked the small backyard from the street behind Brittany and the house behind the garage. She turned back to Santana.

Santana's eyes edged uneasily around the trunk and the corner of the house. Brittany took a hesitant step closer. She wondered where they were—Quinn had never mentioned Santana's home life, if she even knew anything about it—but sandstorm's shifty stance and twitching hands and the echo of her trepidation about having to bring milk home kept Brittany's teeth clicked tight together.

Gently, Brittany reached into the trunk and took two of the bags. They were light. Santana's eyes flickered to hers for an instant—deep with guilt, or sadness, or maybe embarrassment—but then she was twisting the plastic handles between her fingers and closing the trunk. She mumbled something and slinked past Brittany, thumbing through keys on her keyring. Brittany caught up at the back door. Santana twisted the chosen key in a larger, crooked lock at eye-level, then pulled back and flicked to another key. She pressed this one roughly into the doorknob and twisted back and forth twice, then rammed her shoulder into the door.

It shuddered and yielded with a reluctant creak. Santana pushed it open wide and stepped into the darkness; as she tugged the key from its crevice, she said, "Come on in," in that tone Brittany couldn't decipher. She listened, following into the house and out of the path of the door. Santana shut it and flipped the deadbolt, leading Brittany a few feet to the right—toward a doorway—and pushing the heel of her hand up against a panel of three light switches.

She led Brittany into a small kitchen. The afternoon sun filtered through long, dusty curtains, and a similarly unattended but serviceable ceiling fixture offered supplementary light. An uneven wooden table was pushed into the windowed alcove, half swathed with papers and mail. The uncovered side sheltered two scratched, matching chairs. The refrigerator and dishwasher were wedged among the cupboards, counter, and sink. A second alcove next to the doorway housed a small stove and more cupboards.

Santana opened the refrigerator—undecorated, Brittany noticed, so different from the magnets and drawings and photos on her own—and tucked the milk and cheese inside. Her body hid the contents, but the rack above her head was empty.

Santana pushed the door shut with a heel and spun, hands outstretched to Brittany. Her gaze still canted to one side. Brittany slipped the handles of the bags off her wrists and into Santana's palms. Her whirlwind looked more like a beehive, now—calm on the outside but buzzing with danger and nervous energy. She slipped the frozen food into the freezer and turned again, putting the rest of the food into one bag and placing it onto the counter near the stove with the twitch of a sneer.

When she froze, stock-still, facing Brittany, the energy from bustling seemed to whir gently past her, burning out as it shifted her hair and clothes against her skin. Dark eyes settled on Brittany. And, almost suddenly, Brittany could see pink warmth blooming where Santana's summer-dark skin faded lighter into her hair. Then, with a sinking jolt, she recognized that inward look-away guilt.

Humiliation.

Brittany swallowed as Santana's gaze darted away again. She stepped forward and, after a second of panicked consideration, slipped her pinkie around Santana's. Those eyes turned up and sank into hers. Brittany offered a small smile. "What do you wanna do for dinner?" She teased her bottom lip between her teeth, feeling almost shy. She thought about continuing—reiterating that she had no plans, and needed to eat something, and they might as well eat together—but she saw the words turn over and over behind Santana's smooth skin and wrinkled brow.

Finally, tornado relaxed, looking away in thought instead of discomfort. Letting Brittany's levity defuse the atmosphere. Santana's glance lighted on the bag on the counter. "I was gonna just make tortillas," she said, "but maybe we could go out instead."

Brittany blinked—it was usually her who stumbled into double-meanings—but Santana's emphasis made it clear that _out _referred to the house. And probably the neighborhood. Maybe Quinn would know.

"Yeah!" She squeezed Santana's pinkie and bobbed her head. She spread her smile bigger. It successfully pried a little one out of Santana. Then, Brittany's face fell; she lamented, embarrassed, "But I don't know any place to eat, really."

Santana's shoulders quivered, like she was chuckling really quietly, and she shook her head, tugging Brittany's pinkie and leading her toward the door. "We can just go to Breadstix," she said, holding the door open for Brittany and releasing her pinkie. Santana gestured for her to go through and she grinned; as she passed, Brittany swore she felt Santana's hand, feather-light, guiding between her shoulder blades.

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><p>Brittany felt eyes boring into her through the menu. She peered over the edge of the plastic at Santana, curled into the corner against the booth and the partition.<p>

Brittany wet her lips. "What?"

Dark eyes flicked over her face. A small, amused smile. "You've never been to Breadstix?"

Heat crept into Brittany's cheeks, though she didn't know why. She curled the corner of the menu, watching her fingernails reflect the light. "Nope."

Tornado laughed, loud and short and beautiful. Brittany pushed the menu against her lap and folded her arms over the edge. "Should I have?" she asked. Her mouth slanted upward a little, the way it did when she missed a joke but still got pulled along with everyone laughing.

Santana just shook her head. She craned her neck and gestured gruffly at a passing waitress. "Can we get some service here?" Brittany trained her eyes on the startled server; the woman—Betty, according to her nametag—skittered toward the kitchen.

Santana's face had already relaxed when she turned back to Brittany. "You should try the shrimp cocktail," she suggested.

Her tone was so certain. Brittany just nodded. "Okay," she said, folding the menu and setting it on the table. She reached across to get Santana's and slid it closer, settling neatly over hers in a small stack. Santana took a breadstick from the basket and nibbled on the end, then brushed the crumbs off her chest.

"Why did you come?"

Brittany's eyes snapped upward—how had they settled there, on Santana's chest?—and she chewed the inside of her cheek. Certain she'd been caught. "Huh?"

Santana broke off a bit of the bread, holding it over the table this time. "To the store. You didn't have to." She popped the bite into her mouth. It sounded like she'd wanted to ask all day, and now she couldn't hold the question down anymore.

"Told you." Brittany knew, somehow, Santana wouldn't like the truth. That worked out okay; she wasn't positive what the real answer even was. "I didn't have anything to do." Even so, making it seem like nothing felt wrong, so she added, "Besides, I wanted to hang out with you." She took a breadstick from the basket, eyeing it curiously.

"Why?"

That figuring-out look. Again. But harder—deep creases sank between Santana's eyebrows and along her forehead. Instead of diving deep, her eyes seemed to press outward, against Brittany's. Searching.

Brittany looked down and pushed her thumb through the breadstick near one end. She pushed the little piece into her mouth and chewed. Buying time. "Because," she said just before she swallowed, holding her hand in front of her lips, "you're interesting." She gulped and dropped her hand. "And you're the other Slayer. I should at least know a little about you."

Santana stared hard at the breadstick, scratching bits of seasoning off onto the table with her thumbnail. She began to reply, but the waitress—Betty—appeared at the edge of their table with her pen poised above her notebook. "Good evening, ladies," she said too quickly and with some trepidation. "What can I get you this evening?"

Brittany glanced at Santana. "Can I get the…" She frowned just a little, enough to mimic confusion, and asked Santana, "What'd you say I should get?"

It worked. Santana turned to Betty and ordered for both of them.

Betty skittered back to the kitchen; Santana munched through the rest of her breadstick dispassionately. "I can't believe Sue expects us to drink that Master Cleanse shit when there's a place like this in town," she commented.

Brittany glanced over each shoulder. The restaurant was full of—couples. Few adults. "Was she serious about that?" Brittany turned to Santana earnestly. "Because I can't get kicked off, but I need to eat because I get really cranky when I don't eat, and I can't—"

"Britt." Brittany cut off, her bubbling panic bottled in Santana's warm voice. In those lips, coiled into a wry smile. Almost affectionately, she explained, "Nobody really does that. You can't live off that shit." She shifted forward, bouncing on the booth's padding until she sat upright across from Brittany. "Only the newbies actually try it, but anorexia isn't exactly a workable lifestyle when Sue's running your ass ragged day in and day out." She ran a hand through her hair, guiding it carefully across her shoulder. "Besides," she added, taking another breadstick and ripping off the end, "like I said, slayin' leaves you hungry and horny, and even the wrath of Sue can't work out those kinks."

She rolled her shoulders and leaned back into the booth, tucking the bread into her mouth. Brittany worked to unglue her eyes from Santana's shirt shifting as she preened. After a moment without an answer, Brittany felt those brown eyes settle on her again. She looked up too late—cheeks tinged pink—but as Santana turned slightly to the right and squinted, like she was sure she'd seen something important but needed it verified, like she'd learned a secret—

"Here you go, girls," Betty nervously chirped, setting plates before them with trembling hands. "Is there anything else you need?"

Cyclone was focused on the food, now; she flicked her wrist in a dismissive wave and Betty retreated to the back. Brittany held her breath.

Nothing. The only reference to Brittany's staring came as mirth glinting in Santana's eyes when they caught Brittany's. Santana freed her fork from the rolled napkin and dug into the salad in front of her.

Brittany took a shrimp from the rim of the glass and dipped it hesitantly in the sauce. She'd had shrimp once before, when she was six at an office party and her father had teased her about her picky eating. She'd risen to the challenge, but remembered little else. The bite tasted foreign on her tongue.

It struck her, offhandedly, that this was her chance. To ask about Holly. The hallway. Or even—Brittany glimpsed a drop of the red sauce slipping down the crease of her palm—the dream.

But by the time she looked up, trying to reshape the thoughts into questions that wouldn't whip up the storm before her, Santana was already talking. "Where'd you say you moved here from?"

It caught her off guard, and Brittany had to gulp down the malformed phrases she'd begun to stitch together. "Indianapolis," she answered, almost stuttering.

"Huh." Santana bobbed her head and half-shrugged, as if to herself. "That's kinda cool. Were you, like, right in the city?" She speared a piece of lettuce, folding it in half savagely with the tines, and pushed it between those full lips.

Brittany wet hers subconsciously. "Kinda." She dropped her eyes to her own salad. Her fork, shoveling underneath the pieces halfheartedly, just scooted the food around the plate. "We were in a suburb, but it was bigger than this one."

A scowl. "Lima sucks," Santana spat, stabbing another leaf with unnecessary violence. Her face crumpled angrily, like a smashed pop can.

Brittany eyed the fork—jerking up and then jutting at a new angle like a stake—and Santana's eyes, pointed at the task at hand. Brittany's heart pounded out ten long, thick seconds against her inner ears. Uncertainly, she opened her mouth and drew air in sharply, closing her lips in a pucker to make a sucking noise like a breathy slide whistle.

Storm-eyes looked up in surprise for a full second before a short laugh escaped. It sapped the hostility from the muscles in her face and arm, like a cool cloth against hot skin. She shuffled the lettuce around her plate with less vehemence. "But, come on, it's gotta be shit compared to Indianapolis, right?" She glanced up at Brittany from beneath long lashes.

Indianapolis_._ Brittany let her eyes drift over that face and down along the smooth arm picking at shredded bits of carrot. She noticed how her right hand mirrored Santana's left; it felt almost—strange. Like a living reflection. Or maybe something else, with such dark hair and eyes and deep-summer skin and black nails. Like a shadow counterpart.

She thought back to the dream again. The Indianapolis warehouse. The blood on her hands. Santana, dark quicksilver, like a stroke of charcoal on bleached paper. A swath of night.

Brittany shrugged and popped another shrimp into her mouth. "It's kind of nice," she said, a little defensively. "It's quieter, and you can see the stars better. You know you can't see the stars at all from the city?" Santana watched her carefully. Brittany drew a breath. "I bet you can't see them in Cleveland, either."

Santana's expression pulled inward like closed shutters. She gulped ice water, dark eyes flitting away from Brittany, but didn't say anything. Brittany wondered if the warehouse in the dream had looked the same to Santana's eyes.

They crunched quietly through their salads. The lettuce felt insubstantial, settling like a feather in Brittany's stomach and leaving too much space. She ate another shrimp and studied Santana's face folding along old creases into the look she presented to the Cheerios and Quinn and Beiste and Holly. Unexpressive. Only a tick past neutral, enough to suggest a scowl. To discourage—something.

Brittany touched her water glass, tracing her fingertips in lines through the fogged condensation. "Santana," Brittany began—but once those deep dark eyes crept back into hers, she lost the courage she'd gathered to mention the night on the mausoleum or the beat of their bodies against each other in the Bronze or on the grass. She wasn't even sure how to mention it. Instead, she hastily substituted, "What do you think that dream meant?"

The rush to organize her thoughts and then replace them had made her voice waver, like she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. She realized it was probably that uncertainty—the sound of vulnerability—that kept Santana guarded instead of springing her into attack. Snapping shut like a mousetrap. Like swearing at Puck and kicking the chair.

Santana looked away, apparently considering. "I dunno," she muttered gruffly, but the way her gaze paced the table and their plates and their glasses said she wasn't done thinking yet. Brittany waited. And watched. Santana scraped her short nails across her skin, leaving faint off-color streaks in the pattern of the blood-war-paint from the dream. "In my experience, they don't make sense until it's too late." Her voice was strong and open and almost melancholy. When Brittany looked up again, those dark eyes were already pressing into her, the way Brittany set Hershey's kisses into the soft cookie dough when she and her mother and sister made black-eyed Susans.

Brittany thought about the warehouse and the blood and Santana's voice like steel and the graveyard and the blonde and _him _and the talisman and the headstone labyrinth. Santana looked pained, like she was thinking too. Like the dream was a soup of questions she'd swallowed too hot, scalding her tongue and throat and settling steamy and boiling in her stomach.

"Yeah," Brittany agreed, no longer sure what she was agreeing with. She dropped her eyes to the lettuce, cold and crisp on her plate. She took the last few shrimp instead, pressing the ends together between her fingers, dipping them in the sauce, and eating them all in one bite.

Whirlwind was looking around again, like her eyes were those little gnats that never stayed anywhere long. She took another sip from her water. She seemed as interested in the remnants of her salad as Brittany was in hers. "Let's go," she muttered, waving at Betty with a scowl.

Brittany said nothing.


	10. Welcome

Well hello there. Hope you enjoy the chapter! And thanks for the feedback, everybody! Again, you can also track updates on tumblr under ehefic.

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><p>The sky was dark when they parked by the graveyard. The clouds pulled back from the stars like cotton balls torn apart at the center; against the blackness, they were still stained plum sunset-purple. The dim yellow streetlights draped a matt reflection across the car's hood, like a flashlight low on batteries.<p>

Santana crept over the fence like she was sneaking in a window: two steps to the top, then dropping into a crouch. Not showing off, like before. Brittany followed suit.

As they walked, sneakers pressing into the softening soil, whirlwind was noticeably quiet. Brittany kept her eyes away, jagging along the familiar headstones and mausoleums and the tops of the distant treetops and buildings. It felt like looking at Santana would spark—something. Brittany could feel her, buzzing with thoughts, teetering like she was still atop the fence. Like eye contact would knock her back. Or make her pounce.

After several minutes of walking, searching the area for lumbering letterman jackets, Santana cut cleanly into the silence.

"What's your schedule?"

Brittany's eyes jumped to Santana's instantly, like the words were a twig snapping in a silent forest or the child's screech from Santana's yard. Santana's face was smooth, though, the way it was when she talked to Quinn. Like it was a picture of herself, like she was pulling it up on her phone and asking them to look at it instead of her.

Brittany admitted, "I don't remember."

Santana turned her head, watching the stillness around them. A breeze passed lazily. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow, if we have anything together." She flashed Brittany a smile. Brittany caught the tentative flicker at the corner of her mouth.

"Right," said Brittany quietly, looking too long at Santana's white teeth and her fingers as they tucked hair behind her ear. A stud glinted in her earlobe, lit by the moonlight slipping shyly through the clouds.

Tornado looked down and aside, gaze peeling across the landscape like a knife against the skin of an apple. "Think we'll see any meatheads tonight?" she asked, after more minutes of silence.

Brittany shrugged and began to speak, turning to look at Santana again, then made a strangled yelp and shoved Santana aside by the shoulder. Whirlwind staggered, face crunching into a scowl, as a barrel of red felt smacked the wind out of Brittany's chest. Brittany curved her back and rolled as she fell, pressing her legs out like a spring to flip the sack of potatoes over her and onto the grass with a solid _thok_.

Big 'N Tall lumbered to his feet and Santana shot past, a streak of wild hair and a cocked left fist, as Brittany braced her shoulders in the dirt and leapt to her feet. She spun, grasping at the air where her stake had fallen from her pocket, and Santana was already lighting into Doughboy, ducking his fists like they swung in slow motion. Brittany swept around his back and looped her arms through his, yanking up against his shoulders and hiking his elbows backward, but he bent forward and twisted. Brittany felt him hike her end-over-end and squeezed her eyes shut against the impact of her spine on the ground. She curled instinctively aside and Santana flew over her, left foot outstretched, and connected solidly with Big Red's big gut.

Brittany stumbled upright, away from Santana's wingspan, and heard, "Fuck, my nose!"

"Wanky," Santana grunted, bringing the knuckles of her left hand deep against Fumble's ribs.

He gasped against the hand cradling his face. He swore again, swiping at the hurricane with his free arm, but she sidestepped it easily. She dropped to a crouch and brought the top of her sneaker hard against his shins; he winced but stayed upright. Santana's foot rebounded and her body rocked back. Brittany bent forward, slipping between them to shove her shoulder hard against Dipstick, and managed to force him back a few paces.

"Fuck this," he mumbled. Blood dribbled over the fingers pressed to his face; his eyes, deadened like the others, flicked around uneasily, like he was just waking up after sleepwalking to a strange place. Brittany leapt at him and feinted. He staggered backward, turned, and jogged away. She watched him leave. Felt her blood beating through her, hot and ready to give chase. But his bemused expression had convinced her he wasn't worth pursuit.

An exasperated sigh rose behind her. Brittany glanced at tornado, crawling off the ground and nursing her bruised pride. "Makes me miss vamps," muttered Santana. She wiped at the seat of her jeans, where ricocheting off Varsity had left a grass stain. "Least we get to dust 'em at the end."

Brittany's lips quirked in mild agreement. She said nothing, looking Santana up and down for visible injuries.

Santana glanced at her, uneasy or nervous or—something. "You okay?"

Brittany shrugged. "You were the one hitting him, mostly," she pointed out. Her hands settled at her waist and she realized she was still short a stake.

Whirlwind smirked. She pulled out the band holding her ponytail and ran a hand through her unsettled hair. "I guess." Her palm skated the back of her neck, like she might gather the strands back together, but she just slipped the band onto her wrist. "That was some rockin' acrobat shit, though, Britts," she added, beginning to weave among the stones again. Her voice was pale, awestruck, though Brittany couldn't see her face from where she followed.

"Thanks," said Brittany, though rolling around on the ground hardly felt acrobatic. Especially since she'd already done some flips over the fence and during training.

After a few minutes, Santana slowed to a stop. Brittany came up behind her, hovering a few inches from Santana's back. "Maybe we should go back," Santana said, doubt weaved into the words like colored threads into a braid. Brittany's eyes wandered down Santana's round shoulder and strong arm. "I don't think there's any more—"

"Your hand," Brittany blurted, brows lifted. She snatched Santana's left hand from where it rested against a tall headstone. The skin had torn between the middle knuckles and blood dried in a pattern like tree roots across her veins.

Brittany brushed the cut with her thumb and whirlwind winced, forearm twitching, but she didn't pull away. "It's fine," she protested, gaze glued to Brittany's fingers.

Brittany turned her thumb upward in the moonlight. She thought she could see a thin smear of red, but it was so hard to tell. She pressed it back to the cut, harder, and pinched with her other finger. Santana's lip curled and she hissed, almost silently. "What?" she snapped, although Brittany was pretty sure she meant _ouch_.

"Did you know cuts sometimes work like people?" Brittany asked, looking carefully at her thumb. With the blood and Santana's veins both running away from it, it seemed like her thumb was some kind of focal point. Like everything spilled out from her.

She could feel Santana looking at her strangely. Brittany brought out her most innocent face—the one with smooth eyes and upturned eyebrows, the one she used when she and Katie got rowdy and broke something—and glanced up into those dark eyes. "Sometimes you gotta squeeze really tight to make them stop hurting."

The arch of Santana's eyebrows rippled, that edged, searching look replaced with one of softness, like the night they'd talked about Arcas and Andromeda. She pursed her lips into the smallest smile.

When Brittany didn't say anything else, Santana cleared her throat. "I was just saying, I don't think we're gonna see any more. Maybe we should head back."

"Okay," Brittany said, staring at their hands. The patch of skin bleached white under the pressure of her thumb.

She could hear Santana's breaths, shallow above her. Neither of them moved.

* * *

><p>"Britts! Thank God." Santana dropped a textbook onto the desk beside Brittany's and slid into the seat, discarding her backpack on the floor between them. A grin cracked little wrinkles along her cheeks and eyes, despite a clear effort to tamp it down. "I was gonna freak out if we really didn't have class together."<p>

Brittany smiled a little and crossed her ankles. "We had lunch together," she offered.

"Lunch isn't a class," Santana said, rolling her eyes. She noticed Brittany's bare desk and frowned. "Wait, where's your book?"

Brittany eyed the glossy cover of Santana's book. _United States History_. "I lost the book list," she admitted, chewing her lip. Santana's elbow covered the author's name.

Santana looked at her almost curiously. "Oh." She kicked her backpack underneath her seat, hunched forward, and scooted the desk over. It scraped angrily across the floor and the plastic made a loud _crack _when the desks collided. "You can look at mine," Santana said simply. She flipped open the textbook with a kind of forced interest that was almost suspicious. She leaned her elbow on the desk and her head on her hand, closing them off from the other students.

A quick survey of the classroom and Brittany knew the loud noise and probably their proximity had gotten some attention. But Santana brushed the pages aside, face blank and movements casual, and her left elbow grazed Brittany's wrist as she examined the table of contents, and Brittany scooted to the right in her chair so their shoulders almost touched.

The teacher had showed up and started writing page numbers on the board and talking about expectations and zero tolerance. Brittany watched Santana's index finger, thumbing page corners to find the right number, and risked peeking at her face now and then. Her dark eyes and long lashes. Her cheeks, where her dimples hid. Her mouth.

Santana stopped at the page and looked up at the teacher. Brittany almost smirked at her beautifully bored expression. Brittany read the heading for the first chapter.

_New Beginnings._

* * *

><p>After history, Santana dropped the textbook in her bag and kicked the desk back into its row. Brittany watched, sliding her arms into the straps of her backpack, and asked, "What do you have next?"<p>

"_Libre_," Santana said with a grin. "Free period." The grin twitched. "You?"

Brittany smiled back. "Me too!" She checked her wrist, where she'd scribbled her schedule in blue gel pen. "Is that like a study hall?" Her brow furrowed and she looked up.

Tornado was smiling at her. She touched Brittany's elbow and guided her toward the door, shaking her head and saying, "Nah, it means we gots nowhere to be."

Brittany followed Santana to her locker. Eyes on the emptying halls, she whispered, "Should we talk to Coach Beiste?"

The textbook hit the locker's back panel with a dull _clang_. "About the Redcoats?"

"No…" Brittany frowned. "About the football guys."

"That's what—" Santana glanced up and sighed. She tugged the zippers on her backpack and slammed the locker door with her elbow. "Never mind. You think they found anything? This isn't exactly your standard supernatural showdown shit."

Brittany shrugged. Santana settled the straps on her shoulders, hands tugging them taut at the bottom, and steered Brittany down the hallway. "Where are we going?" Brittany asked.

"I thought—"

_Thuk._ A force against Brittany's shoulder spun her around. Two hulking guys in Varsity jackets and cargo shorts smirked at her. Their eyes looked flat, even under the fluorescents and reflected sunlight, as they skimmed Brittany's body.

Hurricane tore into them.

"Watch where the fuck you're going, Moby Dick!"

They slowed without stopping. One of them—the boy from last night, Brittany recognized with widened eyes—gestured vaguely, unperturbed. "Cool it, Lopez."

The other, his smug grin white against his dark face, jeered, "What was that? You want some dick?" He swiveled, still walking, and jerked his hips lewdly.

Brittany wrinkled her nose and Santana boiled over. She started yelling in Spanish—the words flicking out like BB gun pellets or the M&Ms Katie threw at Brittany on Halloween—and lunged.

Brittany dove at Santana's waist, locking her hands together and pulling backward; whirlwind bobbed against her arm, still berating the guys as they retreated. Their smirks flickered at the edges now, where they hunched their shoulders against the abuse.

The words got hoarser and quieter; Dumb and Dumber turned a corner and Santana slackened in Brittany's arms. Brittany loosened her hold hesitantly. Listened to Santana's rough breathing. Gradually, Brittany drew her arms back to her sides. "Santana?" she asked.

Those dark eyes avoided hers. "I'm okay." Bounced along the lockers to the corner. "Such assholes." When she finally looked at Brittany, she looked almost sheepish.

"They're weird," Brittany said flatly.

Confusion flickered across Santana's face. "They're just regular football douches," said Santana, like she was sure she was missing something. It almost made Brittany smile.

"No, I mean—" Hiding the smile seemed really hard. "Their eyes. Something about them. Like at the graveyard."

Though Brittany could feel herself losing grip on the words she needed, Santana seemed to understand. "They have been pretty pushy. You think it's during the day, too?"

Brittany shrugged. Looked at the sunlit squares heating the metal of the lockers. Looked back at Santana.

"Guess so," muttered Santana, jaw shifting thoughtfully. She scoffed soundlessly. "Almost couldn't tell. Karofsky and Azimio are pretty much cocksuckers all the time." After a few seconds of Brittany's silence, Santana turned back to her, dark eyes taking in little corners of Brittany's face. Santana softened a little. "Come on." She turned, touching Brittany's wrist as if to guide her, and took up their original path down the halls.

* * *

><p>On their way back inside after spending the rest of their hour throwing bits of paper at each other at a picnic table in the courtyard, Quinn stopped them with her customary half-scowl.<p>

"Who pissed in your oatmeal, Goldilocks?" sneered Santana, like Quinn's disapproval was aimed at her. Brittany scrutinized Quinn's tight face and cold eyes. Maybe it was.

Quinn barely spared Brittany a glance, focusing her irritation on Santana instead. "Excuse you?"

Santana crossed her arms and reared up, all proud shoulders and jutting jaw. "You look like somebody tried to jimmy open your chastity belt."

To her credit, Quinn just rolled her eyes. "Charming," she snapped. "Matt almost ran me over in the hallway."

Santana glanced at Brittany, immediately alert. "Karofsky almost flattened Britt earlier, too. The whole herd of 'em's been acting freakish."

"Maybe they're still adjusting to the new coach," Quinn suggested, shrugging and tapping her fingers where they clutched a notebook to her chest.

Brittany glanced between them and asked, "Did Finn say that?"

"No…" Quinn narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Like Brittany was competition. "Why would Finn say that?"

Santana's eyebrow arched and she cut in, almost aggressively, "He's on the team, Sugar 'N Spice."

As Quinn opened her mouth to respond—probably angrily, from the way her knuckles showed white against the notebook spiral—the bell rang; students poured out of their classes into the corridor. Quinn tossed her ponytail primly. "Whatever. I need to get to class."

Santana rolled her eyes as Quinn pushed between them. "She's such a bitch sometimes."

"Should we warn her?" Brittany watched Santana. Stepped in front of her and toward the wall to avoid the passing bodies. "About Finn?"

Behind the sneer, Brittany could see a flicker of concern. "And say what? 'Some voodoo thing made the whole team go Chuckie on us, better keep an eye on Fimpotent so we don't end up shoving the business end of a wooden _stick _into his sternum in the cemetery at midnight?'" She gestured dismissively, a scoff rising dry in her throat, but the buried worry showed bright, glaring clearly where her mouth pulled tight and her eyes shifted away.

Brittany bit her lips between her teeth. "You're right," she said softly, to soothe the storm whipping up and the fear close behind.

Santana sighed and touched Brittany's elbow, steering her into the mass of students—parting before their Cheerios uniforms like the red sea, or maybe scurrying away like mice from a hungry lion—and pressing her mouth into a line to suppress an apologetic smile. "_Vamos_. Let's get to class."

* * *

><p>During Cheerios, one of the groups dropped its flyer twice, and Coach Sylvester initiated what she called the Sadist Circuit. She had only used it once during clinics, in late June after a particularly clumsy run-through, and it involved several kinds of equipment and about twenty minutes of unyielding physical punishment.<p>

In the shed, as the two of them gathered the necessary gear, Brittany eyed Quinn over the bin of medicine balls. "So, you know Santana, like, pretty well, right?" she asked, piling resistance bands into the wheeled cart.

Quinn propped orange safety cones against the cart's opposite corner. "I'm not sure I'd say that," she answered drily, but she grew serious when she caught Brittany's earnest expression. She sighed and adjusted the cones, settling her stance. "We've been friends since last year," she amended, frowning like she wasn't sure _friends _was the right word. Brittany let her expression grow skeptical; Quinn glanced at her and sighed. Shrugged. "She's pretty closed off, Brittany." Quinn sounded tired of the subject already. "So, yeah, I know her, probably better than a lot of people, but I wouldn't go all the way to _pretty well_."

Brittany thumbed the elastic cords thoughtfully. As Quinn hefted another armful of equipment into the cart, glaring at its contents in anticipation of pushing the beast back across the football field, Brittany blurted, "She took me to her house the other day."

It was like she'd set off a firecracker or summoned a genie. Quinn's head snapped to attention, eyes searing into Brittany's like scalding water or an unattended iron. "To her house?" she hissed, adrift between insulted and shocked and doubtful.

Brittany's resolve faltered; she looked away, at the shed, at her hands, at the cart, at the grass outside the open door. She brought her gaze back to Quinn, still frozen in that gape-mouthed stare with danger licking at her like flames, and mumbled, "Yeah, and I was gonna ask if you knew where it was, 'cause I don't know Lima, and I thought maybe…" Brittany trailed off as Quinn's mouth closed and her jaw twisted tighter, until Brittany could imagine those pretty teeth grinding together.

"It's not Lima," Quinn finally said, after waiting long enough to make Brittany's skin crawl and draw the screech of Coach Sylvester's megaphone in the distance. They'd been gone too long, but Quinn just ignored the order, and her eyes kept Brittany pinned to the spot.

"From what I understand, she lives in Lima Heights Adjacent," Quinn was saying, her tone a little disparaging, a little disbelieving, and a little bit of something else. Like she wasn't sure it was true—but part of her didn't want it to be true. Quinn put the last stack of cones into the bin and gripped the edge.

She paused again, thoughtful, fingers tapping the cart. Softly, breathily, she asked, "She really took you to her house?"

Brittany's face twisted; should she feel guilty? For bringing it up, or for seeing Santana's house? Her indecision made her feel bad about both. "Yeah," she said, strained and quiet. "Is that a big deal?"

Something passed over Quinn—like a shadow in a clearing, flashing across her face too quick to catch—and she shook her head. "No, I mean, whatever," she dismissed, tugging the cart toward the doorway and the field. "She just doesn't, like, let people do that a lot." She glanced at Brittany, almost a glower, and Brittany recognized the guarded distrust when Quinn added, "Or ever."

Quinn had never been to Santana's house.

But now Brittany had.

Brittany let it rest; she pushed the cart, helping Quinn guide it over the threshold and across the rocky terrain. In the distance, where the rest of the Cheerios were running ladders in anticipation of the circuit getting set up, Brittany caught sight of Santana's black ponytail, whipping behind her. Her arms jerking back, like she could tear through the air with her arms. In the sun, in her red and white uniform, she wasn't the panther from Brittany's dream.

But she was still a storm.


	11. Week One

Happy Saturday, kiddies. Thanks so much for the alerts and reviews! It makes me want to write. Thanks always to SunshineTuna for betaing.

* * *

><p>Brittany spent her second morning at McKinley arguing with the attendance office secretary. Or, listening to the secretary argue at her. Katie had missed her bus; Brittany'd walked her all the way to the elementary school, to make sure she crossed the highway safely, and sprinted back to the high school to make the second half of first period.<p>

The woman, old and irritated and compulsively fiddling with the chain dangling from her glasses, tried three phone numbers before reaching Brittany's mother. Only then was Brittany released into the school with an excused absence. She'd missed what remained of first period.

Mood soured by the late start, Brittany glumly stalked into the hallway a few minutes before the passing period. She meandered toward her homeroom—thanks to the secretary's timing, she didn't need to hurry—and looked absently at the tan lockers.

As she neared an intersection by the courtyard, she passed an office with windows. Her Spanish teacher—Schumacher, Schuester, something generic and German—was sitting at his desk, facing Finn. Brittany slowed her pace slightly.

Schroedinger had a foot propped on his desk, chair leaned back to match his cocky shrug. Finn—recognizable from behind by his floppy hair and unnatural height—seemed stressed; his hands were braced against the arms of his chair, fingers gripping too tight, arms and back and shoulders tight like a string and drawing creased lines across the back of his light blue polo.

Between them, sitting on Schechter's red binder, was a small beige packet with stenciled lettering. Schoenberg kept looking at it and nodding at it. His hair, crusted motionless with too much gel, reflected the fluorescent light as he gestured emphatically.

Brittany passed the window right as the bell rang. She was only a few doors up from her homeroom, a Home Ec setup with ovens and clean countertops and stools instead of desks, when she ran right into someone speeding out of the classroom to her left.

"Sorry," Brittany blurted, reaching out to steady—Santana, who seemed to catch something caustic right before it left her mouth.

"Brittany," she said, blinking. "What're you doing here? I thought you had Setson first period." Her eyes jumped over Brittany's shoulder, toward the room across the building she'd expected Brittany to be in.

Brittany pressed her lips together to control her pout. "I was late. Katie missed her bus."

In those eyes, Brittany caught a glimmer of sympathy, sunk deep in the confident, vaguely annoyed expression Santana had spent the previous day presenting to the rest of McKinley High. "Oh." Her foot shifted on the linoleum, like some part of her remembered they were supposed to be going to class. Other students weaved around them, wary of Santana or the uniforms or both.

A smile flickered across Santana's lips. "You should've called me, Britt. I could've given you a ride."

Brittany looked at Santana carefully, trying to read between the lines and beneath her guarded face. "Okay," Brittany said, not sure and not worried about what she was agreeing to.

Santana's eyes darted right again. "I gotta get to homeroom," she said, apologetic under the edge in her voice.

"Right," Brittany nodded. She touched Santana's arm as she turned to go; out of the corner of her eye, as she walked away, Brittany swore she saw Santana looking back after her.

* * *

><p>"I told you they'd have nothing," muttered Santana while Beiste flipped nervously through the papers on her desk.<p>

"Like I said," Beiste continued, too distracted to listen, "Holly's been lookin', but it's not easy to find stuff about it. It's really old, and it don't show up in text every turn of the tumbleweed."

Brittany nodded sympathetically, but Santana gripped her elbow, nails digging in gently above the joint, and tugged her out the door with a rough _whatever_ thrown over her shoulder.

In the hallway, Brittany said hesitantly, "It's not her fault."

"It was a waste of time to go," Santana replied, dragging Brittany down the hall toward the back field for practice. "I told you, they'll find us when they know something."

Brittany followed, face twisting uneasily. "But Coach Beiste said I should check in after patrol," she protested, still speaking gently. "Like, every time."

"That's dumb," Santana scowled, but a glance at Brittany's expression melted her harsh edges down like a candle by a bonfire. "I just mean—it's a waste of your time, to tell her there's just been more of the same."

Thoughtfully, Brittany said, "Maybe that was just 'cause we trained every day over summer."

Santana's eyes turned strange and deep. "Yeah," she said, sounding grateful for the out. "I mean, with school and stuff, you don't have time for that."

Brittany eyed the set of Santana's mouth, her tight ponytail, her nails still dipped in the skin of Brittany's arm. Before she could stop them, the words tumbled out: "Is that what you did with Holly?"

She could feel Santana's muscles tense; after the flicker of pressure, whirlwind ripped her hand away from Brittany, like she was getting caught stealing. Or about to get caught.

"Yeah," she answered, but Brittany heard the distance in her voice and the way her eyes weaved long strokes along the corridor, angled away from Brittany. Like those eyes were climbing a cliff, as fast as they could, to get away. "She just texted me when she figured something out."

Absently, Brittany wondered if Santana still had Holly's number. If Holly would pick up where they'd left off—wherever that was—and just text when new information about the talisman popped up.

But, still feeling guilty, still certain they should at least check in occasionally, Brittany felt the cold chill off Santana's turned shoulder and decided to leave it alone for now.

* * *

><p>Three days later, nursing tight, overstretched muscles after Cheerios and dance and a late-night solo sweep of the cemetery, Brittany nearly limped across her driveway to Santana's car. The dawn sky was streaked pale, like sand raked away from the water's edge, so the sun would have space to rise in a few minutes. As she settled into the seat, she reiterated, "You really don't need to do this," despite a thankful glance.<p>

"_No seas loca_," Santana dismissed, reversing out of the driveway. "Can't have my girl subject to Marge, Queen of Prunes and Tardy Slips every time Katie misses her bus."

Brittany felt her heart, caged nervously in her ribs, clutch at _my girl_. Her casual smile turned dopey at the corners. She settled into her seat, buckling the belt across her chest and waist and nudging her backpack between her crossed ankles.

"How was patrolling?" asked Santana, tone clean of the gentle teasing that usually followed a dance class night.

It made Brittany shiver, shift in her seat, to realize they were settling into some kind of routine. "Kind of lame," she admitted. "I did get one old-fashioned vampire, though." She brushed the pleats of her Cheerios skirt with her fingertips.

"Did you?" Santana's brows lifted and she glanced at Brittany as she turned at a stop sign. She smiled crookedly. "Bagged a bumpy, huh?"

Brittany giggled a little. "Yup, a bumposaurus rex," she played along, rippling her fingers along the hem of the seat cover.

Santana grinned at the windshield, eyes on the single other car on the road early enough for before-school Cheerios practice. "Just one?" She blindly retrieved a thermos from the center console and tipped it against her mouth. She offered it to Brittany; Brittany took it and gratefully forced back a few sips.

"Just one," she confirmed, smacking her lips against the taste of unsweetened coffee.

Santana flicked her eyes toward Brittany again, frowning slightly as Brittany replaced the thermos in the cup holder. "How do you take your coffee?" Santana asked.

Brittany turned with a surprised, shy smile. "It's okay," she assured. "I'm just glad to have any."

Lie. Brittany never had trouble waking up. But it was sweet of Santana to offer it to her, anyway; she'd done it two days before, too, for their first early practice. The first time she'd picked Brittany up for school. Too sweet to let her stop.

"Seriously," Santana pushed. "I don't care, I just make it black because—"

She faltered, and Brittany quickly picked up the words tornado was probably trying to bite back. _We don't have cream in the house_, maybe, or _My mom takes it black_. The smallest things, like the milk. Like she somehow knew Brittany would know. The way Brittany knew now.

Brittany let the sentence cut out, like a call getting dropped, and picked up the thread easily. "It's okay. Really." She paused, just a beat, and asked, "How was your night?"

Black nails tapped against the steering wheel. Santana turned it into the school's drive, behind a sedan full of high-ponies with a Cheerios: National Champions 2008 bumper sticker. "Fine." As they slid into the parking lot, those eyes cut to Brittany's, glassy with guilt. "I went to Puck's." Santana shrugged, forcing nonchalance as shallow as the puddles on the pavement. "And, like, homework, and whatever. Usual."

Brittany looked up at the school as Santana shoved the shifter into park. "Righto," she hummed. "Just the usual."

* * *

><p>Brittany dropped an orange next to the curly fries on her tray and turned, searching the sea of students and army of Cheerios for a few in particular.<p>

As she approached from behind, she could hear Quinn hissing at Santana in a tight, shrill whisper she hadn't heard since the shed on the first day of school.

"_Glee_, Santana," she was insisting like it was contagious. "Glee. He's going to flush his reputation, and mine, down the toilet before sophomore year even starts."

Brittany inched forward, lifting her other hand to balance her teetering tray, when Santana spoke up. "It's already started, Q." She sounded almost amused. Brittany could see her fingers, black nails flashing, tracing the Master Cleanse bottle she usually filled with some kind of smoothie. "Besides, I thought you two had enough star power to do anything."

Brittany could literally hear Santana roll her eyes. And mentally mime air quotes around _star power_. It made her grin. She pushed forward and skirted the table, plopping down onto the bench across from both of them. "Who're you doing, Quinn?" she asked innocently, keeping her face quizzical even when Santana started snickering.

Quinn, as expected, wrinkled her nose. "Gross, Brittany," she admonished, like she was disappointed or something. Like Brittany was this whole new person, this Friends With Santana Brittany, and Quinn resented it.

"Finn joined glee club," Santana explained, still smirking at Quinn, a little cruelly.

Glee? Brittany blinked and frowned in confusion, turning the orange absently in her hands. "Is that bad?"

For once, Santana stared in open surprise. Quinn did, too, but she was looking more at Santana than Brittany. "Um, duh, that's bad," Santana was saying worriedly, like she'd gravely miscalculated something. "Glee is like social suicide."

"I thought Mathletes was social suicide."

"That is, too."

"Hey," Quinn cut in, "what happened to having enough star power?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Don't kid yourself, Quinciñera. Ain't enough star power in the solar system to survive glee club."

"But Finn joined," Quinn insisted.

Brittany's nail bit through the skin of the orange, carving a slit along one broad side. She opened her Master Cleanse and squeezed the orange between her palms; juice squirted onto her tray and into the mouth of the bottle.

With a shrug, eyes glued to Brittany mixing the juice in with vigorous shakes, Santana said, "Time for a new beau. I'm telling you, Finn the Cowardly Dog is not worth you falling on your sword." Quinn drew back, clearly conflicted, and Santana added, as her face slackened in realization, "And imagine what Sue would say."

Quinn's eyes bugged; her fingers curled against the tabletop. "Oh. Oh my God."

Santana slipped out of her stare and smirked at Quinn. "Lord's name," she mocked.

"Shut up."

"Why would Coach be pissed?" asked Brittany, glancing uncertainly between them.

Quinn eyed Santana uneasily before turning to Brittany. "She's gone kind of…"

"Batshit," Santana cut in. "Batshit is what she's gone."

Begrudgingly, Quinn accepted the adjective with a slight nod. "—About glee sucking up some of her budget."

With a frown, Brittany asked, "But doesn't Cheerios have, like, tons of money?" She took an experimental sip of her concoction and sputtered, setting it on the far corner of her tray with a wince. She bit into a fry to counteract the taste.

"Coach Bitchvester is seriously unstable," Santana declared, flipping open the cap of her faux Master Cleanse. "She hates glee club 'cause she hates glee club." She cut her gaze sideways at Quinn. "Besides, it's still social suicide."

Quinn sneered and picked up her fork, combing through her salad like she expected to find something tastier underneath. "Fine. Whatever. But I'm keeping an eye on him."

"Isn't that the point?" asked Brittany, pleased when Santana smiled against the mouth of the bottle.

"Ugh," Quinn groaned, rolling her eyes. "It is impossible to have a normal conversation with the two of you."

Brittany rolled that around in her head, _the two of you_, unsure why it sounded so nice in her ears, while Santana smirked and jabbed Quinn in the ribs. "We're the normal ones, Q. Not every teenager's as Disney Channel as you and Finn Jonas."

Scowling deeper, Quinn shook her head and twisted her left arm forward, shielding herself from Santana and directing her face toward Brittany. After a pause, she said, "By the way, I'm starting a celibacy club next week." Brittany watched Santana's eyebrows climb high on her forehead. "Ms. Pillsbury's going to sponsor it. You two should join."

A snort escaped tornado before Quinn even finished the last sentence. Quinn shot a dirty look at Santana, but then looked at Brittany with the same expression Katie got when she wanted to sit in Brittany's room for a while. "Please join?" she asked, voice rising at the end. "I promise it'll be fun, and it'll look good for colleges."

"Like colleges care if you bone people," Santana snapped, amusement replaced with a dark frown.

Quinn frowned at Santana—gentler than she probably wanted to, since she was still trying to convince them to do something. "Sue will care," she insisted.

Santana actually laughed aloud—a loud, humming giggle, ending in an open-mouthed laugh. It made Brittany's insides warm and bubbly. "Quinn, don't tell me you seriously think Sue's going to give a single solitary goddamn flying fuck about your sell-a-bratsy club."

Even Quinn stalled under a shut-down that icy. She stabbed a lettuce leaf harshly, frustration making her wrist tremble, and barked, "Well, I'm captain, and you're supposed to be my right-hand, so you'd better join with the rest of us."

Uneasily, Brittany asked, "Why are you making a club about a vegetable?" She glanced at Santana, anxiety leaking onto her face. "Veggie Tales gives me nightmares."

Quinn frowned at her, that look she'd perfected over the summer, that _what the hell is wrong with you _Quinn version of the figuring-out look, while Santana squinted slightly and flicked her eyes over Brittany's face. "Oh," she said, relaxing, "celibacy, not celery. It's when you don't have sex." Her gaze cut to Quinn, ten shades darker. "Like, ever." She sneered. "On principle."

Quinn looked disgusted, but as she opened her mouth to reply, Brittany blurted, "Why would you do that?" Quinn's neck almost popped, it turned so fast, and she stared hard at Brittany, mixing shock and disgust and warning into one glare. "Sex is fun," Brittany explained sheepishly, retreating slightly from the table.

As Quinn began, again, to say something back, Santana swatted her shoulder. "See, Quinn?" She offered Brittany an amused smile; Brittany sighed, instantly relieved. "Told you we were the normal ones."

"That's disgusting," Quinn snapped, nose wrinkled and lip curled. She glanced at Brittany. Something unreadable filtered through her eyes; they dropped down at Brittany's body, just for a second, before getting redirected at the sad salad. Quinn stabbed at it with her fork.

Santana just shrugged. At Brittany, she winked. _She's just jealous_, she mouthed. Brittany smiled, to Santana and to herself, as Santana took another gulp of light-orange smoothie.

Quinn muttered at her salad.

* * *

><p>In the graveyard, after staking two lively vampires and chasing off the football player from the hallway, Brittany's body was getting that warm, sweet hum she loved. She'd be sore in the morning and during Cheerios after school, but right now she felt like an instrument perfectly tuned, ready to belt out her best notes at highest volume.<p>

Hurricane, for her part, looked similarly wired. Her cheeks flushed. Hair sneaking loose from her ponytail. She held a stake easily in her left hand, naturally, the way other people held a drink or a TV remote. Her limbs were long and loose and smooth, muscles curving gently. A vein snaked across the underside of her forearm.

"All in a day's work," she was joking. She was upbeat tonight.

"Or a night's," Brittany replied.

As they strolled, sneakers nudging aside blades of dry grass, whirlwind reluctantly ventured, "I guess we should probably head back."

With a glance over her shoulder and across the gravestones around them, Brittany admitted, "I guess," while her face fell.

They adjusted to face the corner where Santana parked her car and Brittany headed home, but slowed their pace, as if on telepathic agreement.

Into the brief, companionable quiet, Santana scoffed, "Can't believe Fabray's starting a fucking nun club." The curse was gentle. Amused. Almost affectionate.

"She's kind of prudey, isn't she," Brittany said, more an uneasy observation than a question. She'd spent all summer listening to Quinn talk about Cheerios and Finn and _Seventeen _magazine, but at their one sleepover, flipping through an actual issue of _Cosmo_, Quinn's flustered sneer at the sex personality quiz and the second installment of a special on multiple orgasms told Brittany that maybe Quinn wasn't quite kidding about her involvement in her church's youth group. Plus, she blushed like a tomato, and tried to hide it behind her hair.

Santana laughed, light and throaty. "No shit." She paused a second, while Brittany was still enjoying her buzzing body and the heat of Santana's voice, and then added more insistently, "Don't let her give you shit about it, though."

With a tilted head, Brittany asked, "About what?"

Those eyes twisted away from her. Peering thoughtfully at the darkness. "Like, sex." She shrugged, one shoulder higher than the other, like she could physically build a wall between them. Like Brittany wouldn't see her painting her own experiences across her face while she warned Brittany to avoid what happened to her all the time. "I mean, she gets high and mighty a lot. About her prudery." The smirk she offered was halfhearted. "Don't let her get to you, or, like, shit on you about not being uptight like her."

Although Brittany suspected Quinn wouldn't be that aggressive about it—would probably condescend subtly, the way she did when she managed to make Brittany feel stupid without even saying anything—she stared at Santana's eyes, wavering until they finally wandered back to meet Brittany's, and murmured, "Okay."

Tornado seemed vaguely, distantly surprised, because a smile leaked out across her face, quiet and genuine. Brittany linked their pinkies. Santana let her.

Brittany tilted her head back. "Look at the stars, San," she said quietly.

They were barely walking at all. Santana craned her neck; wet her lips. "Yeah. Wow."

Her voice was raspy. Shock-soft. Whispery, like the gauzy curtains on the window in Brittany's upstairs bathroom. Brittany leaned into Santana's shoulder, reaching her arm in front of Santana's face to point upward. "See Andromeda?" she said. Leaning had left her mouth close to Santana's ear. The words came out more breath than sound.

"Yeah," Santana replied just as quietly. Brittany saw her throat clutch as she swallowed. Brittany dropped her pointing hand and squeezed Santana's pinkie with the other. Santana tugged her lip between her teeth; Brittany could see the stars leaving flecks of light in the back of those dark eyes. "You were right," admitted Santana, quietly, after a moment of thick, slow-motion silence. She swiveled her head, gradually, to face Brittany. Her eyes still deep, dark glass. "The stars look brighter from here."


	12. Cheers

Early update because I'm feelin' it. Thanks for reading and especially reviewing - feedback is the best, ever.

* * *

><p>"La<em>days<em>," drawled Puck with a grin, bending at the waist to drape his arms heavily across two sets of shoulders. Quinn rolled her eyes over pinked cheeks while Santana raised an eyebrow expectantly. Unimpressed.

Puck leered at her, gaze dropping all the way down to her lap, before he glanced at Brittany and Quinn. "Start-of-year party, at Rutherford's," he announced undeterred, even when Quinn knocked his arm away with a smack and a shrug. Santana followed suit, and he knocked his hip against the back of her waist as he added, "Don't worry, the Puckster's on booze patrol, so you know it's gonna be off the hook."

"So long as the booze doesn't have your grandpa's fishing platitudes attached," snapped Santana with an elbow in the soft place under Puck's ribs. His _oof _and instinctive wince were overshadowed by her warning: "Don't just bring wine coolers this time."

Though the serious cut of her face and her hard metal eyes meant business, Puck ran his fingers through his crafted hair and chuckled easily. "Easy there, Santana," he teased, her name in three syllables like the bouncing ball on Disney sing-along tapes, "you know I got your number." When her expression barely changed—just that eyebrow, the one that meant danger, creeping back up toward her hairline—he clarified, "Tequila. Lots of it."

That seemed to pacify her, though Quinn scoffed loudly. As Puck and Santana glanced at her, him with strange amusement and her with clear impatience, Brittany asked, "Is there gonna be whiskey, too?"

All three of them turned to her with surprise—though Santana less so. Earlier in the week, on patrol one night, Brittany had accepted a swig from her battered flask. Even then, she'd hardly been shocked. "Hell yeah," Puck said firmly, once he got his jaw into working order. He bobbed his head like a pigeon, like he was cranking up his excitement with the grin spreading across his face. "Whatever you want, Blondie." His eyes crawled up and down Brittany's top half; the only half visible across the lunch table.

Santana threw another elbow to the gut. "Jesus, Lopez," he grunted, a scowl creeping into his features. She rolled her eyes, then drew them slowly—super slowly—up and down his body. It was enough. When she quirked her brow again, he grinned in response. Glancing at Quinn again, then at Brittany, he pointed at each of them in turn and affirmed, "Saturday. Be there."

* * *

><p>Brittany pushed Santana toward the library doors. Whirlwind was pouting. "It won't take long," Brittany insisted. "But I don't wanna fail English my first week of school."<p>

"Fine," said Santana, backing down the empty hall and pointing at Brittany, "but you swore we'd play Hangman, so you better get your ass over here before the period ends."

With a smile, warm as the last leg of summer weather outside, Brittany promised, "I will." When Santana finally turned and pushed past the library doors with a glance over her shoulder, Brittany twirled and half-skipped back down the hallway.

Instead of heading to the English offices, she turned toward the history office in the adjacent corridor. Peeking in, she spotted a straight blond part hovering in the back, beyond four empty desks and a haphazard cubicle divider.

"Hi," Brittany greeted from a foot behind Holly.

Holly spun so quickly she bumped the desk chair at her side. Her surprise melted into a bright smile as easy as melting ice cream in the microwave. "Hey there, sweetie. What can I do ya for?"

Ignoring the obvious joke, Brittany asked, "Well, I wanted to know if you got anywhere with the coin thingy yet."

Holly blinked. "Not yet, sugarplum," she admitted, shoulders and mouth dragging down at the edges. Her fingers grazed the papers on her desktop. "I have looked a little more into the football problem, though."

She turned toward the desk, brushing the papers aside to uncover an unmarked notebook, and Brittany frowned. "You don't think they're connected?"

"Well," Holly said with an easy shrug as she flipped the notebook open, "the boy problem could just be a spell and I figured, hey, might as well look up something I might find."

The pages of the notebook were filled with scrawled notes and occasional sketches. Demons. Symbols. An address on the upper corner of one page. A square torn off the top of another. She stopped where the writing ended three-quarters of the way down the left page, opposite a page of blank lines. The end of her notes.

"You found it?" asked Brittany, looking back up at Holly's face.

She hedged. "Not exactly," she admitted, rushing to add, "but I've been looking at enchantments and spells. Ones that might fit what you're seeing." When Brittany didn't answer, Holly tilted her head slightly, her anxious eyes relaxing. "What exactly is it you're seeing?"

Brittany thought. Shrugged. "I mean, I don't know what they're usually like," she pointed out. "So you should maybe ask Santana about it." Something passed over Holly's face—something shadowy and quick—but Brittany couldn't catch it. So, she went on. "They're kind of just being really pushy."

"Huh." Holly's smile reappeared. "Well, thanks, honey. I'll keep looking. Don't you worry."

Watching Holly's face carefully, Brittany said, "I know, I just thought I'd check in."

Holly nodded. "Sure thing. I got your number from Shannon, so I'll just shoot you a text when I find something."

"Right," Brittany said, instead of asking why she couldn't just text Santana like she used to. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>Without looking up from the mustache she was drawing on the hanged stick figure, Brittany said, "We should get ready for the party together."<p>

She felt Santana shift beside her, peering over her arm at the overly detailed Hangman victim. "Yeah."

Brittany pursed her lips, squinting at the thin line she'd drawn, and began to add long, curled ends to the mustache. It matched the cowboy hat better that way. "I think Matt lives kind of close to me," she continued, "so maybe you can just come over and we can go together."

Santana paused; though Brittany kept her eyes glued to the paper, she felt Santana move again before she agreed. "Okay. Yeah."

"Plus," Brittany added, pulling her pen away and turning to Santana with a bright grin, "then you can just sleep over after, so you don't have to drive home immolated."

The smile on tornado's face was soft and almost fond. "Okay," she said again, like she couldn't help herself. She dragged her gaze down to Brittany's Hangman and let out a chuckle. "Britt, I think it's time for me to throw in the towel."

"You don't have a towel, silly," Brittany admonished, offering the pen.

Santana didn't take it. She scanned the careful block letters again, skeptical and amused. __ILATE_ CAR_I_M_PATH__. "I'm serious," she pushed, still smiling as she folded her arms on the edge of the table. "I got no idea."

Nudging their shoulders together, Brittany added another sweep of shading to the feather in the cowboy hat before filling in the letters. _DILATED CARDIOMYOPATHY_.

Santana snorted. "The fuck is that?" She looked at Brittany, curious but not doubting.

Brittany breathed in deeper than she expected. Felt her lungs and heart press warmly against her ribs. With a self-conscious shrug, she explained, "Lord Tubbington has it. It's when your heart's too big."

And as Santana stared at her, lips parted, eyes deep and searching, face smooth and soft as that night on the mausoleum, Brittany thought she knew just how Lord Tubbington felt.

* * *

><p>Three shots into Matt's party, Brittany couldn't stop looking at Santana's mouth.<p>

They were clustered near the kitchen counter with Puck and a boy named Mike. Mike was mixing drinks, ignoring Santana's verbal abuse, and Puck was trying to see how far he could slide his hands up Santana's shirt before she dragged his arm out or stomped on his foot. The tequila was letting him get a lot farther than he had when they'd showed up at midnight.

Santana was snapping at Mike, telling him to give her a stiff one or she'd sterilize him for free, and the words spilled out so rough and warm, warm like the alcohol at the back of Brittany's throat and belly, and Santana's lips looked so dark and smooth. Like the mausoleum. Like dancing at the Bronze.

The idea seeped through the tequila—Puck had forgotten the Jack Daniels he'd promised, and swore with a leer that he'd make it up to Brittany later—and Brittany pushed off the counter. Her shoes scuffed against the tile to keep her balanced as she reeled.

"Easy, Britt," Santana soothed with an absent laugh, leaning away from Puck to steady Brittany at her elbow. The animosity she'd aimed at Mike dropped, like it was heavy and she'd been holding it for a while.

Brittany giggled and let her dizziness press her body into Santana's. "Easy peasy, lemon squeezy," she sing-songed, her mouth close to Santana's ear by the end. Santana righted her gently and grinned. Brittany thought she could see Puck staring at them, smacking Mike's turned shoulder, but it all seemed fuzzy and faraway compared to whirlwind and her long dark lashes and close wet mouth. "Let's dance," Brittany suggested eagerly, clutching clumsily at Santana's hands and tugging her back toward the living room.

Soothed, no doubt, by the alcohol and the late night and the prospect of a night without patrol, it took Santana seconds to settle with Brittany into their notch in the crowd. She snapped her fingers twice to the beat, but Brittany was staring at Santana's mouth again. With a coy smile, like floss coiled around a finger, or maybe a puppet string, Santana pressed in and rolled her body, a breath from Brittany's front. Brittany wet her lips and grasped lightly at Santana's loose shirt. It rippled with her movements.

They were so close. The bass throbbed—or maybe that was Brittany's heartbeat—and it felt like her dirt bike was revving up inside her, vibrating along her legs and her bones and her blood. When she glanced away from those lips to Santana's eyes, she found them staring up at her. Deep and thick. Knowing. They slid down Brittany's face—past her face—past her shoulders—and Brittany's fingers knotted the material by Santana's hip, pulling her close while their bodies kept moving.

"You look good in red," Brittany said through the cotton in her throat. She felt a smile sneak onto her face. The warmth of the tequila was nothing like the warmth of Santana, hair flicking her face and body so close. Brittany could smell her sweat.

Santana just grinned at her, cocky and loose, and touched the arm Brittany'd anchored against her hip. She traced Brittany's bicep and left the hairs on end. Brittany swallowed as Santana moved toward her, bracing her free hand against Brittany's shoulder and slipping her lips toward Brittany's ear. "Thanks," she whispered over the sound of the song and the hum of Brittany's body.

Brittany listened and breathed and danced.

* * *

><p>"Finally had enough?" asked Quinn over her curling lip.<p>

Brittany offered her a happy, sloppy grin and tugged Santana's hand to draw her into the conversation and away from where Puck brandished a half-empty bottle near the liquor cabinet. "Guess so," answered Brittany brightly.

Quinn's tight face slackened a little, even when Santana bumped against Brittany's shoulder and gave Quinn a proud sneer. "Havin' fun, Quan't-drink-one-beer-without-puking?"

The jibe was so bad it made Brittany giggle. Quinn rolled her eyes and, with a long-suffering sigh, asked Brittany, "You're not driving, are you?"

"No, we're walking," said Brittany, giggling again. She turned to grin at Santana conspiratorially. "_These boots are made for walkin'_," she sang through her giggles, "_and that's just what they'll do_…"

Santana's expression was hard to read, especially when Brittany kicked her foot up for emphasis—though she wasn't wearing boots—and gripped Santana's arm to keep her balance. After a tense second, Brittany started laughing again. She looked back toward Quinn in time to see her roll her eyes, again, and sigh, again, in exasperation. Finn lumbered around from behind and offered Quinn a cup of what had to be water.

"Finn!" yelped Brittany, grinning and pulling Santana's arm. She looked seriously at Santana. "It's Finn," she whispered.

"Hi, Brittany," he said with a wave and that dopey smile. He looked more hesitant—and a little fearful—when he glanced aside and said, "Santana."

"Yeah, Totem Pole," grumbled Santana, and Brittany remembered why they were on their way to the door.

She reached out to grab at Quinn, misjudging the distance and almost knocking the cup out of Quinn's hands. "Are you going home soon?"

As she recovered from the near-fumble, Quinn sighed haughtily and flipped her hair back, glancing up at Finn. "I'm not sure."

"'Cause we're gonna have a sleepover," Brittany continued, shaking Santana's arm, "and you could come if you wanted."

Immediately—or maybe it just felt immediate, because time was pretty swimmy by then—Quinn shook her head. "Thanks, Brittany," she said, looking a little apologetic, "but I've got church in the morning."

"Okaaay," Brittany drawled while Santana tugged the arm Brittany clung to. "Then we're gonna go."

Santana gave Quinn a reluctant smile. "Have fun at the guilt factory." To Finn, she added with a mock salute, "Seeya, Stretch."

And then they were out the door.

* * *

><p>Out in the street, Brittany walked the curb like a balance beam, long arms stretched out like a tightrope walker. "Lookit, San," she insisted excitedly, "I'm doing it."<p>

"Yeah, you are," croaked Santana. She'd drunk a bit more and it'd turned her voice rough and dry.

Brittany glanced at her over one shoulder and giggled. She hopped onto the street and said, "You sound all froggy."

Santana smiled, but it faded into a befuddled frown when they reached a corner. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk; Brittany backtracked, stepping off the empty street and onto the concrete. She looked around while Santana got lost in thought.

Hesitantly, Brittany leaned in close. Her head—still spinning a little, from the shots and from jumping around outside—tilted closer than she meant, but it gave her a whiff of that Santana smell again, and she stayed there. Hovering by her ear. "What is it?" she asked, and she marveled at the way her breath shifted strands of Santana's black hair.

Santana drew back, looking at Brittany strangely, and turned away, toward the side street. Brittany saw her elbow sneak out on the left when Santana crossed her arms. "Isn't your house this way?"

She actually sounded unsure. Brittany giggled again. "Oh, right," she said, touching the small of Santana's back as she skipped past. "This way!"

In Brittany's room, she watched Santana scramble through the window and had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. Santana cursed in Spanish in a harsh, steaming hiss while Brittany scooted open the middle drawer of her dresser. She stopped halfway, lifted the drawer, and tugged hard to skip the part where the wood scraped loudly.

The curses quieted; Santana crept up beside her. "Here," whispered Brittany, "you can wear this." She pushed a t-shirt and shorts into Santana's hands and held another set to her chest. She noticed the nervousness glimmering in Santana's eyes, growing gradually as they skipped from Santana's hands to Brittany's and up to her face. "You wanna brush your teeth?" she asked, and led Santana into the bathroom to show her where she kept her collection of free toothbrushes from the dentist.

Santana finished first and slinked back into Brittany's room. When Brittany got back, after spending an extra few seconds trying to scrape the souring alcohol taste from her tongue, Santana had already changed into Brittany's clothes. Brittany had picked a motocross shirt that looked better on Santana than it usually did on her. Brittany smiled, dumped her own dirty shirt into her hamper, and changed into the sleep clothes she'd left perched on the open dresser drawer.

Tornado still hovered between the dresser and the bed. Over the buzz in her head—dimmed somewhat by the fresh air and the climb up the side of the house and the minty toothpaste—Brittany could sense Santana's anxious energy. The way her fingers twitched, forever waiting to hold a weapon.

"Get in bed, silly," whispered Brittany as she carefully worked the drawer closed. She glanced at Santana with a crooked grin.

Santana looked startled. And sheepish. "I wasn't…" she began, but she seemed to lose her place, and Brittany touched her waist to guide her.

Santana gestured toward the floor, helplessly, even as she let Brittany push her toward the bed. "It's cold on the floor," Brittany whispered, like it wasn't as warm indoors as it was outside this time of year.

Even so. Santana didn't protest. Brittany climbed over the bedspread and shoved her feet under the sheets. She threw the blanket toward the end of the bed, where it fell in a crumpled pile. With a little smile, visible in the moonlight, Santana pushed the blankets further down, mashing them against the footboard before she climbed in gingerly beside Brittany.

Brittany snuggled into her pillow and watched Santana settle into the sheets. She looked so hesitant and nervous and uncomfortable. It was cute.

"You're cute," said Brittany with a giggle and a little yawn.

Santana froze, still braced on her elbows awkwardly, and Brittany could see those dark eyes skitter across her face in the darkness. "C'mon," Brittany whispered before Santana could reply. She touched whirlwind's shoulder and pulled gently. "Sleepy."

With a sigh of—something, Santana flopped onto her back and shimmied, carving the sheet's wrinkles into a Santana-shaped nest. They were quiet a moment—Santana staring at the ceiling, Brittany staring at Santana—before Santana swallowed and said, throaty and deep, "Thanks, Brittany."

"For what?" Brittany asked, and she wanted to giggle but she held her breath instead.

Santana's head dropped heavy on the pillow to let their eyes meet. Santana wet her lips and worked them into a little smile. Shrugged. "For—whatever. Letting me stay over."

Again, Brittany started to giggle, but this time it came out a yawn. "Mkay," she hummed instead, having mostly forgotten what she was supposed to be replying to. She nestled her head into the pillow and peered through her hair at those deep dark eyes. "G'night, San."

She stared back. She looked awake, still. Not sleepy. And conflicted. Almost sad.

"Yeah. Night, Britt."

* * *

><p>Brittany awoke to the deep darkness of 3AM with her arm slung too casually over Santana's side. She was facing Santana's back. She could taste her stale breath. See it shift Santana's hair, in the hazy shadows. Her body two strangely precise inches away. Close enough to smell the detergent in her sleep shirt and the dried sweat on the back of her neck.<p>

Santana's ribs rose and fell too quickly beneath Brittany's elbow. She was awake, too. The realization twitched Brittany's arm; her fingertips brushed soft cotton and her thumb bumped lightly against a right angle. The curve of Santana's breast.

Brittany froze. Throat thick. Arm tensing, lifting a hair's width from Santana's body. Nerves frozen and electric.

A shallow breath shook Santana's ribs, but just as Brittany readied herself to draw away, she felt a feather-light touch along her forearm. Santana's fingers traced halfway down her arm and back up to her elbow, cautious and soft.

Down and up. Down and up.

Gradually, Brittany let her arm grow heavy again; it sank against Santana's side like their bodies against the bed. That strip of skin, quickly over-traveled and burning attentively, grew used to the gentle strokes.

Brittany counted Santana's shaky breaths until she slipped back into sleep.

* * *

><p>Sunlight lit the edge of Brittany's eyelid in bright red. The rest of her face was pressed hard into the wrinkled pillowcase.<p>

She felt Santana's diaphragm rising against the palm of her right hand. Warm. Too fast, again, for sleep. Brittany squeezed her eyes closed harder against the crease of the pillow.

Santana's gaze was warm against Brittany's face and ear. She could feel it without looking. She smiled into the pillow. "Morning," she said, tasting the cotton pillowcase against her mouth. She smacked her lips and turned her head, cracking one bleary eye to meet Santana's.

"Hi," said Santana, and she smiled despite the nervousness shaking across her face. Her eyes darted between Brittany's and she twisted, dragged her arm up, propped her head against a bent wrist. Brittany's hand slipped down, pinned at the corner between the mattress and Santana's stomach.

Santana looked over Brittany's face. Brittany couldn't read her expression. "How'd you sleep, Britts?"

Her voice was still soft and sleep-rough. And probably tequila-rough. Brittany gulped against the taste suddenly rearing in the back of her throat. "Mkay," she answered drowsily, hugging the pillow with her left arm, "but my head hurts."

"Aw." Santana looked at her gently and brushed Brittany's tangled hair away back behind her ear. "Poor Britt-Britt."

Brittany squinted, smiling a little, and pinched Santana's t-shirt. She rubbed the fabric between her thumb and pointer finger and asked, "What 'bout you? Drank more'n I did."

With a crooked, almost curious smile, Santana replied, "I'm okay. Drank some water." Her eyes skipped away and back again. "But, um, maybe we could shut the curtains?" she asked, wincing a little.

Brittany giggled and tugged the shirt lightly. "If you're offering."

Santana flopped onto her back, groaning with great exaggeration, and made a show of pulling herself upright. "If you insist," she drew out dramatically, using the mattress to help her stand. When Brittany laughed again, hugging the pillow tighter, Santana tossed a pleased smile over her shoulder and pulled Brittany's heavier curtains over the sheer white ones.

Shadow draped over Brittany on the bed and half the room. Santana stepped around the dresser to pull the curtains shut over the second window, casting the whole room in soft dim light. "There," she said, crawling back across the bed. Brittany held the sheets aside and Santana slipped under them without hesitation. She dropped heavily onto her back again; after a punctuated pause, she turned her head to grin at Brittany. "Much better."

Brittany snuggled the pillow, letting her eyes drift closed for an extra second, and smiled at Santana. Swathed in shadow. Her face open.

"Wanna sleep," Brittany mumbled into the pillow, to keep Santana from noticing the silence. She added, "Did you know hangovers are 'cause you dreamed about drinkin'?"

Santana grinned, that soft smile, and shook her head against her pillow. Her hair drifted across her face and she reached up to brush it back. "Really?"

Brittany nodded seriously. "So you gotta go back to sleep, so you can dream about something else."

"And here I just make coffee," said Santana, chuckling easily.

"Sometimes that works." Brittany shrugged. Dragged her eyes along Santana's body, curving beneath the sheets. She wondered if she could get her hand back against Santana's belly, warm under the shirt.

When she looked back up, Santana's eyes were dark and they darted to the mattress between them as soon as Brittany saw. Brittany bit her lips between her teeth, trying to think of something to say, when Santana beat her to it. "What're you doing today?"

She sounded almost shy. Curious, Brittany watched Santana's face as she said, "You know. Hangin' out."

Santana smiled and glanced at her. "'Hangin' out,' huh?"

Brittany nodded somberly. "It's serious business," she deadpanned. Her hand snuck across the space between them—without her really realizing it—and touched the loose shirt where it sagged away from Santana's ribs. "Gotta do it right."

Santana was staring at Brittany's hand—hard—but she asked, so casually, "What's it entail?"

"Ew, Santana," scolded Brittany with a wrinkled nose. She poked below Santana's ribs with her pointer finger. "Don't talk about guts and stuff when it's, like, morning."

"Not entrails," began Santana, rolling her eyes with a little smile. "I mean, what's _hanging out_ mean for you today?"

Brittany looked thoughtfully at her hand. Pinching the fabric again. "Well. I was gonna try to make my head stop hurting, first." Santana nodded; Brittany didn't look, but she could feel those eyes on her face. It made her cheeks feel hot. "And I was gonna maybe go riding today."

"Riding like—horses?" Brittany glanced up at Santana's face just in time to see confusion wash into understanding. "Oh, motocross."

Brittany grinned, feeling strangely proud. "Bing-bing-bing," she said like a game show bell, walking her fingers up Santana's side with each note. "We have a winner!" She traced a circle around the dip of Santana's belly button and dropped her hand flat.

When Santana was quiet for a long moment, Brittany looked back up at her face tentatively. Ready to pull her hand away. But Santana was looking away, at the stickers Katie'd pressed into Brittany's ceiling. Finally, as Brittany wet her lips to speak, Santana turned toward her again and asked, "Mind if I, like, tag along?"

She looked so vulnerable and uncertain. Brittany felt her brows tilt upward even as she grinned. She poked Santana's stomach again, twice. "Duh."


	13. Effigy

Okay team, thanks as always for the reviews/alerts/etc, getting any kind of feedback is always super awesome! I've got some big plans for this story, so thanks for bearing with me. I know a bunch of you are maybe impatient with the slow-going Brittana, but I just want the development to be organic and in-character. So, you know, reserved!Santana is reserved. Anyway, enjoy update #13!

* * *

><p>At the track, Brittany tried to coax Santana onto her bike.<p>

"It's not that scary," she promised, picking at the rubber grips on the left handle.

Tornado cut her off. "I'm not scared," she snapped. The second she said it, her eyes dropped to the side. "I just don't want to."

The flicker of fear and guilt lingered under the bunched muscles on her forehead. Brittany shrugged easily. "Okay, but you're gonna get bored, just standing here."

"I'll be fine," she replied, less harshly than before. She folded her arms across her chest and glanced at Brittany. Flicked her tongue over her lip. "Just—go ride." She waved at the track.

Brittany shrugged, pulling the helmet on carefully over her hair. She straddled the bike, one foot twitching beside the kickstand, and glanced at Santana with a small smile. She bobbed her head and Santana jerked; backed away. "Sorry," she said, lip curling toward an embarrassed smile. By the time Brittany snapped the visor shut and revved the engine, whirlwind had pressed her mouth back into a careful line.

The course was still unfamiliar, and Brittany relished her near-miss at the second curve, when she dipped in so low she heard the front tire stutter against the dirt. Like the first time—like every time—she felt strong and solid and real and alive, a beating thing of red blood and long limbs and wind-chapped skin and muscles wrapped like fists around her bones. An instrument of the universe.

A Slayer.

On the second lap, Brittany took the turn too deep again. She felt a bit of gravel kick up against the side of her helmet, inches from the ground. She grinned against the chin piece. Over the rolling hill ahead, she rocked against the bike, lifting high into the air and swiveling the handlebars experimentally. Tricks would come later, once she'd settled in. Today was about learning the course. Tasting its flavor.

The jersey slapped against her like a flag in a thunderstorm. Like it was trying to rip away from her. She could feel the pain on her knuckles, a slow rug burn, and an instant's glance showed them angry and red as the skin of a Granny apple.

On her third round, she twisted off the racing course, jerking onto a narrower path down a slope behind a small cluster of hedges. When she reemerged, after looping through a grove of trees to rejoin the track near the far end, she caught a glimpse of Santana on her tiptoes, her hand acting as a visor to shield her worried expression from the sun.

Instead of returning to the finish line—irrelevant once she went off-course—she rode across the grass to Santana, who was trying to school her face back into indifference.

"You okay there?" asked Brittany, unable to conceal her grin as she yanked her helmet off.

"Fine," Santana said, but a smirk lingered at the corner of her lip as she slugged Brittany in the shoulder. Brittany sat back in the seat, gingerly flexing her hands against the raw windburn, and Santana rolled her eyes. "Don't look at me like that. I thought you ditched me."

Brittany tilted her head. "Why would I do that?"

Clearly caught off guard, Santana shrugged and cast her eyes aside. She seemed to notice—reeled her gaze back to Brittany—and said, "No reason, I guess. Just didn't know what you were doing."

As unease settled over Santana's features, Brittany swallowed and cut in, "Did you know Teddy Grahams are actually little effigies of gummy bears?"

Santana gave her the most alarmed version of the figuring-out look she'd seen.

So Brittany nodded, insistent. "They're, like, a political protest."

Another beat of silence. Brittany fidgeted in her seat right when Santana started laughing. It started with that same, bubbling laugh Brittany'd only heard one other time—the one that melted inside and dropped right to the bottom of her stomach, like the peak of a roller coaster—and spread out into hearty gasps that left Santana bent at the waist, clutching her stomach.

"You okay?" Brittany asked, smiling wide, and she propped the bike up on its stand and stepped next to Santana right when her laughter abruptly died down and she straightened up. Her hand went to her pocket. "What's up?" asked Brittany, smile fading in confusion.

"Phone," said Santana, looking down as she dipped her fingers into her pocket to fish it out. She glanced at the caller ID as she answered, "_Diga_," then doubled back to the ID with a scowl. "Beiste, what's the sitch?" She looked at Brittany with a curled lip and rolled her eyes. She gestured with her hand like she was spinning a hamster wheel: _hurry up_. Her eyes rolled at the phone again.

Brittany mouthed, _What's up?_

Hurricane just shook her head. "Yeah, we can come by, I guess. Hang on." She tucked the mouthpiece against her neck and asked Brittany, "We've got time, right? I mean, do you have to be home…?"

Her face twisted uncertainly and Brittany stopped her with a shake of the head. "Now's fine," she said, taking her helmet off the bike handle. "I'll go put this in the shed." She jerked her head and guided the bike away.

When she got back, the phone had disappeared back into the same jeans Santana had worn to the party the night before. "She wants us to go see her," Santana explained with a shrug. Like she was apologizing for not knowing more.

Brittany smiled. Reassuring. "So let's go."

* * *

><p>The school was empty. Only the set of doors behind the corner of the courtyard were unlocked. Brittany eyed the halls—so eerily silent, after a week of constant chatter—and cracked her neck both ways. She felt a prickle along her skin and glanced over, catching Santana's surprised expression. Annoyed and amused.<p>

"Gross," she said, but she was chuckling. Not like Quinn. No curled lip. So Brittany smiled.

"Here we are," announced Santana as she swung the door open. Beiste started, freezing halfway out of her chair, and Brittany filed in behind tornado as she crossed her arms. "And why, exactly, have we been summoned?" She said _summoned_ like it tasted bad.

Beiste shrugged off her surprise and sat back down. She pulled a notebook out from under some papers. A football playbook. She pushed it aside and pulled out a different one—yellow, marked _99c_ under the Staples logo. Flipped past a few pages. Brittany glimpsed a sketch of the demon she'd run into in June.

"I wanted to know more," Beiste was saying, "about the football guys."

Santana sighed heavily and rolled her eyes; her arms dropped and she propped her hands on her hips. "You dragged us here for that?"

Beiste talked over her. "Now, I've been keepin' an eye on 'em, but you know, even spiders only got eight. So I want you to tell me what exactly you're seeing."

Brittany glanced at Santana and waited for her to speak up. Beiste glanced between them, landing on whirlwind when she answered with a shrug, "I dunno. They're just, you know, extra testosterony."

"Like pepperoni," Brittany murmured with a giggle, drawing Santana's eyes for a split second.

"—like, instead of throwing slushies, they're pushing people around." Beiste nodded and wrote in the notebook on a fresh page. Santana watched her. On edge. "They're just acting weirdly, like, aggressive. They keep running into people in the hallways."

She said the last part like she was thinking out loud. Beiste looked up at her with interest. "Yeah?"

"Hey," snapped Santana, suddenly defensive, "you're the one who sees 'em mowing each other over at practice every day. You seriously called us down here to tell you this shit?"

Beiste sighed quickly, a gust of frustration, and dropped the pen onto the page as she leaned back in her chair. "Calm down, toots," she said warily. As Santana readied something vicious to say back, Beiste went on: "Holly's just having a hell of a time figuring it out."

"The spell?" asked Brittany, glancing uneasily at Santana's darkening expression.

With a half-shrug, Beiste replied, "Well, she's not totally sure it's a spell. But that's her best guess, and more details are better."

She looked at Brittany like she knew about the conversation with Holly. Brittany shivered, chewing her lip and considering possible excuses, and Santana cut back in. "So, are we, like, done? If I spend any more time in this room, I think I'm gonna catch failure."

Brittany's brow furrowed when she glanced at Beiste—that was almost Coach Sylvester-level harsh, and they all knew it—but Beiste just shook her head. She leaned over her desk and waved at them and the door. "Yeah, sure. Scram. I'll call when we know something."

"_If _you ever know something," Santana muttered caustically to the doorframe.

"Santana," Brittany began nervously when they'd turned down the next hallway. "She's just trying to help."

Hurricane looked almost—almost—guilty when her eyes traced Brittany's face. Avoiding eye contact. She turned back to the walls, like the dent in locker 191 was new and interesting. "Yeah, well, she could've waited until school tomorrow to _help_."

After a moment's consideration, Brittany dropped it. "Well, what do you wanna do now?" she asked, clasping her hands behind her back.

Santana looked at her thoughtfully. "I—" She stopped suddenly, sighing and rolling her eyes, and reached into her pocket. She looked dispassionately at her phone and rolled her eyes again as she answered. "What, Q?"

Brittany paused beside her, scuffing her shoe against the tile. She could feel Santana looking at her. "I'm with Britt right now," she said into the phone. A beat. "Doesn't matter. What's going on?"

Her lips twisted and she tucked the microphone against her neck. "Do you wanna go do homework at Quinn's?" she asked, expression clearly showing her disinterest in doing so.

Brittany bit her lip hesitantly. "Well, I do have to do it tonight…" Santana watched her. Waited patiently. Brittany heard a garble of noise from the phone's speaker, but Santana made no move to acknowledge it. Brittany shrugged helplessly. "We can go. We don't have anything else to do."

She wished Santana would say no, anyway—would come up with something else they could do, together—but she wasn't surprised when Santana said, into the phone, "Fine. We'll be there in ten." A beat. "Fifteen. Fuck if I'm hurrying my ass just 'cause you demand it."

As she hung up, Brittany fiddled with the hem of her shirt and asked, "So, we're heading there now?"

"Looks that way," Santana said, carelessly returning the phone to her pocket. She caught Brittany's eye and faltered. "Unless—you don't want to. We can still blow her off."

"No," Brittany said, sighing. "I really do need to do my homework." She felt worry turn her lips downward. "I can't be on Cheerios if I fail stuff this early."

Santana shook her head. "Don't worry about it." She took Brittany's arm and led her toward the doors again. "Sylvester doesn't let Cheerios fail, and anyway, Q and I'll help you get it done."

* * *

><p>Quinn's mother opened the door, but barely had time to smile thinly at the pair of them before Quinn shooed her away. "Come on," Quinn said, walking through the foyer and gesturing over her shoulder.<p>

Brittany glanced at Santana and grinned when Santana rolled her eyes; she adjusted her backpack with her left hand and hooked their pinkies with her right. "Come on," Brittany said seriously, looking at Santana with a straight face and mimicking Quinn's voice as she tugged toward the stairs.

Upstairs, Quinn folded into a careful position against her headboard, nestled in a precise halo of syllabi and textbooks. She was in her Cheerios uniform.

"Jesus, Fabray," snarked Santana as she unceremoniously dumped her bag onto the floor. "Getting ahead of yourself a little? It's the first week of school."

Quinn scoffed and didn't notice Brittany giggling. Santana flopped onto her stomach across the foot of the bed. The wrinkling of the coverlet upset Quinn's papers, and she cried out before throwing a pen at Santana's back. "Easy, tiger," teased Santana. She glanced over her shoulder at Brittany and motioned her over. Brittany settled cross-legged on the open corner of the bed, slipping her bag off her shoulder and holding it carefully in her lap.

"I thought we could start with history," said Quinn as she straightened her materials, ignoring Santana's criticisms. Brittany nodded thoughtfully and unzipped her backpack.

"Seriously, Q," said Santana. She perked up on her elbows and looked around Quinn's room. "We've barely even got homework yet. What's up with the study sesh?" Before Quinn could reply, she wrinkled her nose at the bare nightstand and added, "Fuck, you don't even have _Seventeen _or some shit?"

Quinn rolled her eyes and flipped to the second page of her history syllabus. "Let's not have a repeat of freshman year, Santana," she snapped, offering the syllabus to Brittany so she could find the page in the history textbook she'd retrieved from her bag.

"Last year was fine," Santana insisted, crawling back to sit on her heels and reach her backpack. She pulled out her textbook and an issue of _Cosmo_.

"You copied half my assignments."

"Like I said. Last year was fine."

Brittany brushed her thumb along the right side of the page, following her eyes down the paragraphs. She swallowed and glanced up to find Quinn watching her. "This is the chapter, right?" asked Brittany, trying to force her nerves down.

"Right," said Quinn. Her stare felt unsettling.

Santana laid back across the bed and dragged _Cosmo _in front of her. "It's not even due yet," she dismissed as she flipped past the first few pages, hesitating briefly at a mascara ad.

Brittany looked back to Quinn. "When is it due?"

Quinn shook her head. "The worksheet's due, though," she insisted, bending her leg over her array of papers to push Santana's discarded textbook into Santana's unguarded ribs.

"Hey!" she protested, swatting at the book's sharp corner and catching Quinn's hard stare and arched brow. She sneered. "Fine." Brittany watched _Cosmo_'s glossy cover under the light as Santana swapped it for the history book. "What page are we on?" Santana asked as she opened the book with a bored expression.

"Sixteen," said Quinn. "We're supposed to write down all the bolded terms and match their definitions."

Santana exhaled with a mirthless smile. "Fuckin' A."

Halfway through the worksheet, Santana bucked back onto her heels and swore as she dug into her pocket. "God, why the fuck does everybody wanna talk to me today?" she complained as she checked the caller ID. She went rigid for a moment—Brittany could hear the buzz of the phone against Santana's palm—before scooting off the bed. "Be right back," she said as she backed toward the hallway. She answered the phone with "¿_Qué pasa, Mami_?" and she slipped into the bathroom and shut the door.

Brittany glanced at Quinn, who stared hard at the bathroom door. Quinn stared too long, and Brittany delicately asked, "Should we keep going?"

"Yeah," Quinn answered, forcing her eyes back to the worksheet. "She'll catch up."

They had just written _Parliament _in careful, underlined letters when Santana walked back into the room. She looked upset. "Everything okay?" asked Quinn drily, like she couldn't care less.

"Fine," muttered Santana, standing by the bed and yanking the front pouch of her bag open.

As she rustled through the pocket, Quinn lifted an eyebrow skeptically. "Doesn't look fine," she said. A gum wrapper fell on the bedspread as Santana liberated a crumpled pack of Newports. Quinn glared. "Absolutely not."

Santana pulled a face and kept patting around inside the bag until she produced a lighter.

"Absolutely not!" Quinn repeated, moving forward on the bed and upsetting her papers to swipe at the cigarettes.

Santana held the pack out of her reach. "Jesus fuck, relax, Q," she snapped, turning her back as a shield and pulling a cigarette out. She tossed the pack back into her bag as she distanced herself from Quinn.

Brittany tensed, watching Quinn's face redden angrily. "Santana, you cannot smoke in here," she hissed, her voice a full octave higher when it cracked on _smoke_.

"It's fine," Santana insisted as she walked around the bed. "I'll open the window."

"Santana," Quinn repeated with an anxious glance at her half-shut door, "I'm serious, if my mom catches you—"

"She won't catch me." Santana pushed the window open; the gentle breeze fluttered the pages on Quinn's bedspread and under Quinn's knees. Quinn moved toward the edge of the bed, grazing Brittany's knee with her Cheerios skirt, when Santana sent her an insistent, almost pleading look. "Just one, okay, Q?"

It sounded like _please_.

Quinn froze, studying Santana carefully, before drawing back to her seat by the headboard. Without dropping her gaze from Santana, she began arranging the papers back into a circle. When she finally looked away from where Santana had lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke showily out into the warm afternoon air, her eyes caught Brittany's. It felt like she wanted to say something.

Or like she was trying to say something.

Brittany swallowed. "My cat smokes cigars," she said, flattening the tension out of her voice.

Quinn gave her that _look _she got that made Brittany feel stupid. Santana glanced at her curiously, one hand dangling the cigarette out the window and absently flicking ash onto the shingles. "Tubbers?" asked Santana, after a pause.

Brittany nodded, sucking her lips between her teeth. "I'm trying to get him to quit, though." She watched whirlwind carefully and wrinkled her nose. "They smell super bad."

She was afraid Santana wouldn't get it—because, honestly, even in Indiana, only Katie'd ever gotten Brittany's jokes—but then, just as she turned toward Quinn, she glimpsed the edge of Santana's mouth curling upward.

"Brittany, that's super unhealthy," Quinn was saying, like she wasn't sure whether Brittany was serious about letting her cat smoke or just seriously delusional. Either way, it came out as condescending, parental concern.

Brittany shrugged innocently. "That's what I keep telling him."

Quinn sighed haughtily and directed her voice, more loudly, at Santana. "Smoking kills, you know."

Brittany snuck a peek at Santana, who was hiding her smile by turning back toward the open window and taking a drag off the cigarette. "Yeah, well," Santana said, blowing practiced smoke rings into the sunlight, "not everybody wants to live forever."

As much as Brittany didn't really like smoke—it smelled bad, and tasted worse—she had to admit that Santana smoking on a windowsill was pretty seriously sexy.


	14. Calle Ocho

All righty, starting to pump up the volume. We're almost done with setup, I promise. Also- let me know if there's anything you'd like to see more of; unless I'm saving it for later, I'm not opposed to adding extra scenes if, say, you guys really like Holly, or something.

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><p>Quinn dragged them aside immediately outside the gym doors. Santana was still laughing too hard to complain about the press of escaping students against their backs; Brittany watched Santana with a smile as she failed to catch her breath.<p>

"This is a disaster," Quinn insisted, pitch rising in panic on the last word.

Santana gasped, "Oh, _Dios_," and slipped back into hard laughter. Brittany sniggered but covered her mouth politely.

Quinn looked between them, torn between annoyance and raw fear. "Stop it this minute!" she yelped over the hum of the crowd behind them.

"Maybe over here," said Brittany gently, taking Quinn and Santana by the arms and dragging them toward the vending machines. In the corner between the Dasani dispenser and the wall, they carved a safe pocket from the masses leaving the pep rally.

"Santana," snapped Quinn, shaking her arm harshly, "this is serious!"

Santana straightened, head tilting back in mirth, and said breathily, "No fucking shit, Fabray! This is serious comedy fucking gold right now!"

The annoyance wedged in front of the panic, and Quinn slapped Santana's shoulder. Hard. "What am I going to do? I can't let him cavort around with the dwarf from the black lagoon!"

"That's racist," said Brittany seriously, and Santana cracked a grin that made up for Quinn's judgmental sneer.

With a shrug, Santana said, "There's nothing you can do, Quinn. How're you gonna force him out of the club?" When Quinn looked down in thought, Santana's lips curled upward again and she looked knowingly at Brittany. "Offer him sex?"

Santana's renewed, howling laughter timed perfectly with Quinn's scandalized gasp. Despite her red face, Quinn ignored Santana and turned to Brittany. "Maybe I can get him to quit," she said, and she gripped Brittany's arm tightly while something dangerous glittered in her eyes. Brittany noticed they were hazel, but they were swimming dark and green as she spoke. Ominously.

"How?" asked Brittany meekly, glancing at Santana as she got herself back under amused control. "I mean, really though."

Quinn looked stumped and released Brittany's arm.

"You could join."

They looked at Santana, who shrugged and crossed her arms. "Seriously. You could join, and keep an eye on him."

"Join glee club?" asked Quinn incredulously, like Santana'd suggested they shave their eyebrows off.

Santana glanced at Brittany and Brittany wondered if her heartbeat was louder than the crowd thinning around them. She kept her expression neutral, but—singing and dancing? For fun? She couldn't remember the last time she'd really been able to do it for fun.

"Yeah," Santana was saying. "I mean, he and the boogeyman can hardly get it on right under your nose, right?" She smiled a little, crookedly. "Besides—you gots to remind him what he's already got."

Quinn wrinkled her nose. "You can't keep changing your mind. Either glee will tear our reputations to shreds or it won't."

With a careless shrug, eyes downcast and lip jutting out, Santana said, "It's your call, Q. You're the one who got him quarterback, though. You really wanna flush all that work down the toilet?" At the set line of Quinn's mouth, pursed in consideration, Santana pressed on, a little poisonously, "You're not gonna find another dude that doughy and yet inexplicably well-liked."

Brittany smiled a little. "Doughy?" She blinked playfully at Santana, who smirked.

"Like, Pillsbury doughy." Those dark eyes cut back to Quinn. "Boy's putty in your hands, Quinn Bee. Let me tell you, he's the least douchey of the football douchebags."

Quinn glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. "Says Puckerman's standing Saturday night date."

Santana snorted. "Sex is not dating," she corrected easily. "And anyway, you are _not _equipped to handle the Puck-flavor asshats that populate the varsity team." She paused, emphasized, "You cannot afford to lose Finn if you still want arm candy," and shrugged with finality.

Though clearly upset, Quinn didn't seem willing to disagree. Brittany glanced between them. They played the same game—but so differently. It was clear Santana was right; Quinn acknowledged it with a heavy sigh. Finally, she groaned. "How can he do—_that—_with—that _thing_?"

Brittany smiled at Santana and forced the giggles back down her throat. The glee club performance really had been pretty painful: all disjointed hip thrusts and awkward ass-slaps, like a bad middle school make-out session.

And the height difference—well, it'd hurt Brittany's stomach, trying to rein in her laughter and protect Quinn's clearly vulnerable feelings.

"Preachin' to the choir," Santana managed around her snickers.

"Ladies!" barked Coach Sylvester, suddenly looming over their group like a vulture. "Why are you standing here chattering? A pep rally performance does not excuse tardiness to practice!"

Quinn straightened instantly; Santana looked bored; Brittany chewed her lip and tried not to look cowed—which translated to a blank stare.

"We were just saying"—Quinn squared her shoulders as Coach crossed her arms with disinterest—"that the glee performance was disgusting." She curled her lip and Coach matched it with a grim, twisted smile.

"Right you are," she said, growing misty and distant as she turned to look at the gym doors, left open by the crowd that had filtered out of the hallway. "A repulsive display." Coach Sylvester looked back at them with sharp eyes. "Trust me, that band of bellyaching bantlings will not be allowed to parade around the school in heat. I haven't seen such unrestrained lust since I was forced to neuter a member of the K9 unit in the Brazilian jungle with dental floss and a pair of pliers."

Brittany gulped and noticed Santana's face settling into a grimace. Even Quinn looked a little put off.

Coach Sylvester was unaffected. "In the meantime, get your patooties in gear and out on the field in five," she ordered, jerking her thumb over her shoulder and spinning on her heel. As she strode down the hall, she called back to them, "And every minute late means laps!"

* * *

><p>"We're doing it," declared Quinn when she appeared on Santana's other side at the lockers. Brittany peered through the web of Santana's arms and books and Santana glanced at Quinn with a raised brow.<p>

"Why, Quinn," she said in a breathy voice, with a dramatized gasp and a hand on her heart, "you really know how to charm a girl." She dropped the act and her textbook; it hit the floor of her locker with a _clang _and she slammed the door shut.

Quinn sneered. "Hilarious." As Santana slipped the lock into place and spun the dial, Quinn shook her head and rolled her eyes and started over. "Glee, I mean. Your plan. We're doing it."

"Hold up," said Santana, her eyebrows high on her forehead and her index finger raised. "_We_"—she spun the finger in a circle between herself, Quinn, and Brittany—"are not doing shit. You can join glee if you want, but—"

"But nothing," said Quinn with a glare, standing firm in Santana's way. Santana paused, unimpressed but interested. "You're the one with the genius ideas, so you're coming along for the ride in case something goes wrong."

It was a weak argument, and Santana dove for its throat: "What, you can't even handle damage control?" Santana began to laugh as she continued, "And to think Sue put you as capt—"

"Don't make me do it," warned Quinn, with danger glittering suddenly in her eyes. Brittany could see it over Santana's shoulder.

Coolly, Santana asked, "Do what?" but Brittany could hear a tremor, faint under the words, like the whisper before an earthquake that only birds could hear.

Quinn stood up straighter and craned her neck proudly, preening like Brittany's sister's vain kitten. "You know," she said, quiet and dark as Santana's eyes. Clearly enjoying it, Quinn clarified, "Tell people. About that thing I promised not to tell anyone about."

For once—well, not really just once, but the first time around Quinn—Santana froze. Brittany could see the straps of Santana's backpack shift under her tensed shoulders. "You wouldn't," Santana hissed, like she was sure that Quinn would.

Quinn shifted her jaw, clearly satisfied with herself. "Not unless you make me." She relaxed, just enough to slip back into the territory they usually paced: somewhere close enough to _friendship _that they could probably see it in the distance if they stood on tip-toes. "Come on," Quinn enticed, "I'm going to go tell Sue and then we can sign up for auditions."

Brittany came around to Santana's side just as Quinn turned to lead them toward Coach Sylvester's office. Santana looked soured. Like she'd swallowed something rotten. With a guilty glance at Brittany as she fell into step behind Quinn, Santana grumbled, "Shouldn't even have to audition. Those bottom-feeding shit-suckers should be grateful to have us." Brittany's lips twisted into a sympathetic, disappointed smile. Santana's eyes flashed back to hers again. "Should fucking pay us to join. Shit."

Quinn was already hovering in front of Coach Sylvester's desk, so Brittany stepped into position behind Quinn's left shoulder, beside Santana. "Something is going on between Finn and that freak," Quinn was shrilly protesting, and Coach Sylvester held up a flat palm to silence her.

"Queeny," Sylvester began, "I don't much care about you and your little boyfriend problems, but I tell you what I do care about." She glanced meaningfully at Brittany and Brittany managed not to recoil. Coach looked back at Quinn and pointed. "Will Schuester squirrelling Cheerio dollars away in his hidey-hole honey hair. Now you three," she continued, standing and gesturing decisively, "are going to be my little spies. Like when I was in the Rangers, it is essential you not reveal your true mission under any circumstances."

Without meaning to, Brittany blurted, "What's our true mission?" She looked at Quinn and Santana to work up her nerve before looking Coach in the face.

"Your mission, Bernadette," Sylvester continued without any verbal flaying, "is to break into that cluster of castoffs and then _tear glee club apart_." She growled the last words. Brittany looked nervously at Santana, who tugged one corner of her mouth into a little, reassuring smile.

Brittany smiled back as Quinn affirmed, "With pleasure, Coach Sylvester."

Sylvester scowled. "I despise rhyming," she spat as she sank back into her chair. "Now get out of my sight and get after that howler monkey collective."

Quinn and Santana nodded once and filed out; Brittany copied them quickly and caught up in the hallway.

"Well that was fucking pleasant," Santana snapped, automatically aiming for the lunchroom.

"Don't be such a martyr," Quinn chastised. "Now we just have to audition."

* * *

><p>At lunch, while Quinn scrolled through her iPod, her phone buzzed against the Formica table and her face pinched when she opened it.<p>

"What's wrong?" asked Brittany, glancing between Quinn's glower and Santana's dispassionate survey of their neighbors.

Quinn smacked her teeth with a _tsk _noise. "Finn's just being—ugh." She tapped a reply. The buttons clicking loudly under her thumbs.

"What's 'ugh' mean?" Santana asked, smirking as she watched a kid at the next table spill his milk carton down his front.

"He's just—" Quinn slapped her phone back on the table and went back to her iPod. "He's been so irritable lately. It's… inconvenient."

Santana laughed and slid her eyes back to their table. Brittany tried to make eye contact, but Santana was back to flipping lettuce leaves across the plastic plate with her fork. "Now you're starting to think like a head cheerleader," she quipped lightly. Quinn just grumbled.

Brittany wet her lips and asked, "Irritable how?" She tried to paint her curiosity with innocence when Quinn looked up from across the table.

Quinn's gaze shifted over Brittany's shoulder, into the distance. "He's getting defensive about glee, but—he never gets defensive. About anything." She scoffed.

"Pillsbury dough boy got put in the oven," said Santana, smirking at Brittany like they had an inside joke, now.

Just as Brittany brightened and opened her mouth to reply, Puck stalked up and hovered behind Santana, draping his arms around her neck. "Hey, baby," he cooed, and though Santana rolled her eyes, she let him bend and press his mouth behind her ear.

"Watch the pony," she warned mildly. He carried on for a long moment before she swatted at him and pulled her head away. "Keep it in your pants."

"But that's not where the party is," Puck replied smoothly. He flung one leg over the bench and sat straddling it. Brittany glanced at the table's edge, where it cut her vision off, and wondered if their knees were touching.

Quinn made a retching noise. "This isn't a party, Noah," she said sternly, keeping her eyes on her iPod. "So you'd better listen to her."

He was leaning back in, wrapping one arm behind Santana to grip her waist and bend her toward him. "Oh, I'll listen all right," he murmured near Santana's face. She turned her face halfway toward him and arched an eyebrow. "Don't be like that," he scolded cheerfully. He reached up to cup her cheek with his left hand and guided her in.

Brittany shot her eyes down at the table when he kissed her. She looked up at Quinn when she sighed again. Louder. Long-suffering. She pulled a face at Brittany—like, _can you believe those two? _or maybe more like the way her nose scrunched up when she said _gross_ all the time—and rolled her wrist. The iPod screen flashed under the lights. "I can't find a song," she complained drily, pointedly not looking at the way Puck's hand had pressed into Santana's hair and she'd turned toward him on the bench and he was—

"Let me look," Brittany instructed quickly, reaching across the table. Quinn dropped the iPod in her hand with a precise motion.

Brittany started with _A _and scrolled slowly through each individual song.

* * *

><p>On the field, Quinn was halfway through the list of 36 reasons they should sing "I Say A Little Prayer," which she had apparently inventoried during her free period.<p>

Brittany was looking past the clump of freshman Cheerios and wondering how Quinn could possibly mistake her blatant interest in Santana's conversation with Puck for interest in Quinn's long, long list.

"Not that I've really heard you sing," Quinn noted absently as Brittany's ears tuned back in. She turned and offered a blank expression; Quinn supplied, "Except I guess at that party on Saturday."

With a thoughtful glance to the side, Brittany bit the inside of her cheek and asked, "When?"

Quinn flicked her eyes up and down Brittany's body—critically—and said, "Oh, I guess you probably don't remember." She lifted her nose and folded her arms. "You were pretty far gone by then."

Annoyed by Quinn's haughtiness, or maybe just her pose, Brittany sucked her teeth and thought harder. "Oh. These boots are made for walking."

"Right," allowed Quinn, clearly not expecting Brittany to remember.

Brittany let herself look back over at Puck and Santana. His fingers had curled around her hipbone, thumb dipped into the band of her skirt, and she was craning her back to keep out of his reach. She was smiling. "You have to drink a lot more than we did to black out," Brittany said absently to Quinn.

"Right," Quinn said again, tone strange, and when Brittany turned back to her, she saw Quinn glancing suspiciously between her and Puck and Santana.

Brittany gulped. "But. Um. I think that's a good song to pick." She wasn't sure how much more she wanted to hear about it—she and Santana had already agreed to practice it after Cheerios—but Quinn's obvious obsession with Dionne Warwick was an easy way to derail Quinn's equally obvious suspicion.

After practice, Santana promised they'd catch up at Quinn's after a shower, and Quinn melted into the small crowd of freshly deodorized Cheerios. Brittany watched Santana tuck a towel around herself—sneering with bared teeth at a freshman across the bench, who traded her wandering eyes for a self-conscious blush—and toss her underclothes into her locker before stepping around the wall into the showers.

Thinking of whirlwind hair and that wicked smirk, Brittany hesitated at the mouth of the shower area, fingers flexing against her red towel. She glanced at the stall she normally chose—the water pressure was better, and the spout bent back a little so the spray was high enough to wet her hair—but something drew her eyes to the right. Toward the stall beside Santana.

By the time she had assured herself that it hardly mattered, that nobody who used the showers after practice could afford bashful modesty, that Santana wouldn't think anything of it, her feet had already led her into the stall. She hung her towel on the hook and turned the handle to hot, and she looked at Santana's hair, stuck together in long threads where her fingers combed the suds out, and she wondered if that smell, light and crisp without artificial citrus or flowers, was shampoo or body wash, and she barely noticed when the faucet spat out water ice-cold for the first few seconds.

Still, the water warmed only slowly, and she blinked out of her daze and turned her head sharply away. She forced her arm out, grabbing clumsily at the soap and squirting some on her palms, and carefully watched her hands where they washed sweat from her body.

Surreptitiously, she snuck a glance at Santana: hands weaving smoothly down her hair in the back, elbows up past her ears carelessly, childishly, like she'd never seen a shampoo commercial or it'd never occur to her to mimic one. From her angle, Brittany could see the water run slowly down the back of Santana's arms, curving down toward—

Brittany snapped her eyes forward again, easing the lever from hot to tepid. Almost without meaning to, she snuck another look without turning and saw Santana's closed eyelids fluttering.

Brittany groped blindly for her shampoo and washed her hair, careful to keep her glances restricted to Santana's face. Wondering if she could catch Santana looking at her the way she'd looked at Puck on the field.

Wondering if Santana would look at all.

By the time she was wringing the foam from her hair, Santana turned off the water and left. Brittany hadn't caught her eye once—and she'd tried.

With a sigh, Brittany switched the water to cold to mask the red spreading across her cheeks. Stared hard at the chipped white tile. Tried to swallow the dryness in her throat.

* * *

><p>"Britt-Britt, you're patrolling tonight, right?"<p>

Brittany glanced across the console and snagged on Santana's dark eyes. They flicked between Brittany's face and the road. "Yeah, I mean, I don't have dance," she answered slowly. Positive she was missing the real question.

At that, Santana's gaze drew away; she turned her head back toward the road and leaned her left forearm against the window, so her right arm separated them. "You think you'd be okay doing it alone tonight?" Her tongue poked between her lips briefly. "I got plans." She glanced at Brittany over her raised shoulder and waggled her eyebrows, saucily adding "Hot date plans," but her eyes looked cautious and unsure.

Brittany's hand flexed where it threaded through the handle of her backpack. "Sure," she said, because patrolling alone wasn't a big deal, and she'd done it a million times, and she still did it on nights when she had dance and Santana didn't call or track her down.

"Thanks," Santana answered, shoulder relaxing slightly. She switched her position—left hand back on the wheel, like usual—and turned on the radio, flicking through her presets. The first station was playing something slow and old and sad. Santana passed that and a Hot Pockets commercial and landed on Pitbull.

_I know you want me_, he chanted through the speakers.

Those eyes glanced up at Brittany's for an instant. Like the quick jab of a knife. A misstep on the stairs. A table corner against her funny bone.

_You know I wantcha._

Santana popped the power button and finished the drive to Quinn's in silence.


	15. Hurricane Drunk

Notes: The choreography scene's easier to understand if you rewatch their audition in "Showmance," since that's what they're practicing. Also, the reference to Celibacy Club is sort of a reminder that not everything that happens appears in the story. And, finally, a heads-up: the next chapter is an interlude, showing Brittany's past in Indiana. So, get psyched.

* * *

><p>Santana grabbed Quinn's shoulder to stop her and reached out to kill the music from the iHome speakers. "You really did not think this through, did you?" she sneered, eyes flicking over Quinn's shoulder to Brittany.<p>

With an equally irritated glare, Quinn folded her arms across her chest and retorted, "I didn't exactly spend a week planning this, Santana. I told you, I sketched it during my free period."

"Well, it's obvious, 'cause it sucks," Santana snapped back, crossing her arms like Quinn's dark mirror image.

Softly, from behind them, Brittany said, "It doesn't totally suck." They both turned toward her, curious under their annoyance, and Brittany wet her lips uncertainly. "The blocking's solid, but it needs more…" She trailed off and bit her lip, eyes flickering to Santana's for the right word.

"Sex," supplied Santana with a dry, smug smile, in that raspy voice that drove Brittany's gaze down to the carpet and the water rivulets in her memory.

Brittany quietly admitted, "I was going to say 'oomph,' but yeah."

Quinn looked scandalized. "After the pep rally, you really think that'll get us in?"

Santana outright laughed. "Q, what _wouldn't _get us in? Honestly, we could stand there singing 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' with all the non-moves of the fucking _Sound of Music_ tykes, and those desperate peons would still leap at the chance to take us." Those dark eyes caught Brittany's for just an instant. "The point is, it's not gonna look like a dance at all if there's zero hormones going on. It'll look like a second grade staging of _A Charlie Brown Christmas_."

Eyes narrowed, Quinn pressed suspiciously, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Brittany stepped beside them. "It means," she said slowly, "that even if you want to be conservative, acting like you don't have _lady parts_ isn't gonna make you look innocent and pure." Unnerved by Quinn's steady stare, she glanced at Santana again for support. "It's just gonna look like you haven't figured out you have them yet."

Triumphantly, Santana jerked a thumb at Brittany and tilted her head back proudly at Quinn. "What she said," she affirmed, then her hand darted out to slap Quinn's ass. Quinn squeaked, face red and horrified, as Santana continued with a wicked grin, "Like it or not, you went through puberty just like the rest of us."

"What do you suggest, then?" hissed Quinn, arms posed defensively between Santana and herself.

To Brittany's surprise, Santana turned to her. When Brittany didn't say anything—just stood with parted lips and pink cheeks—Santana encouraged, "C'mon, Britts, you do dance. Don't tell me you never did choreography."

The guileless, straightforward praise caught Brittany off balance. She brushed loose strands of hair behind her ear and managed, "No, I have."

Santana nodded and looked at Quinn. "So, let's get crackin'. We got a lot to do and I gots someplace to be later."

Strangely docile, Quinn sighed and pivoted to Brittany. "All right, fearless leader," she said, like they'd elected to put a stuffed dinosaur in charge and she was too tired to argue. "What do we do first?"

Brittany eyed the floor of Quinn's bedroom, running backward through the routine in her mind. "Let's go back to the starting positions," she suggested, stepping around to the invisible mark she'd made in her mind. She was almost surprised to hear them obey, their skirts swishing until Santana collided softly with her side. They shared a little smile and Santana clasped her hands in front of her with mock solemnity.

"Like this?" asked tornado teasingly, rolling her eyes at Quinn's tame choreography.

"Like what?" asked Quinn, facing away from them toward the wall.

Hesitantly, Brittany said, "I think we should add something here."

"Where?" Quinn asked again, already sounding impatient.

Brittany stepped off her mark to grab the iHome's remote. She stood next to Santana—their arms flush together, skin on hot skin—and pressed Play with her free left hand. At the bouncing opening notes, she looked curiously at Santana. "We could—?" She cocked her left arm and rocked her hip, pushing Santana's into a sway she instantly picked up.

With a grin, Santana nodded and kept time. Quinn spoke up as the song's lyrics began, and Brittany paused the music to hear her.

"What're you two doing?" Quinn had turned and was eyeing them warily, clearly afraid they were already turning her wholesome audition piece into a "Push It" level sex show.

Santana rolled her eyes. "This," she narrated dryly, repeating the motion and playfully knocking her hip into Brittany's arm. Without waiting for acknowledgement from Quinn, she asked, "What next?"

Brittany flipped the remote in her palm. "I think the next part's okay," she admitted, catching Quinn's gratified smile out of the corner of her eye. She raised her hand to meet Santana's and they sketched quickly through the motions, swapping until Quinn cycled round to the front. "But instead of, um, praying"—she glanced at Quinn and felt quietly relieved to see her face blank—"maybe we should, like, sway more?"

With a firm nod, Santana cracked a grin and bounced her hip again. The skirt shifted against her thighs.

"Yeah," Brittany said, and she wet her lips. She hadn't spoken this much in one afternoon for—well. It felt like a long time. To Quinn, she said, "When you walk forward, can you—like—sashay, a little bit?" She felt her cheeks warm at Quinn's confused frown. "Um," she murmured, tongue flicking over her lip again as she stepped forward with more hip movement, "like this."

Eyes glued to Brittany's waist, with that focused, almost respectful stare she used for new routines at Cheerios, Quinn asked, "Can you do that again?" and backed up alongside Brittany.

Brittany could feel Santana's eyes on her. "Yeah," Brittany croaked, and she cleared her throat as she walked Quinn back through it. "But," she added after the second time, "you should do that thing from before." She mimicked Quinn's hand placement from the first run-through: perched against her heart, like a butterfly about to flitter away.

Quinn brought her hand back up absently. "I should?"

Brittany nodded. "It works," she said uneasily, hoping Quinn wouldn't ask her to explain because—how could she possibly explain?

"Okay," Quinn said with a nod. Like Brittany was a trusted expert. "Can we run through what we have?"

Brittany glanced at Santana, who shrugged with her mouth curved down like, _why not_? They moved back to starting positions and Brittany played the music.

"We should do more there," announced Santana after their arms rose on the key change.

Flatly, Quinn asked, "Like what?"

Santana's thoughtful expression switched for that glint she got when she accepted a challenge. "I dunno," she said, chewing her cheek. "Like—" She bowed her body forward and back with a proud grin, hand still raised on her right like she was telling somebody to stop or talk to the hand.

"Yeah," said Brittany with a smile, before she noticed Quinn's reticence. "What's wrong, Quinn?"

"Nothing." Quinn bristled. "But won't it look weird if we're all doing the same thing?"

Santana stepped forward and tugged Quinn's shoulders ninety degrees as she instructed, "Just turn sideways."

Brittany nodded. She could see the movements click together, the way they'd look from the front. She touched Quinn's chin—lightly—and said, "Just face this way and keep your arms spread. It'll look good," she promised, when Quinn still looked uncertain.

"Oh! Then do a body roll," said Santana with a smirk.

Even as Quinn protested, "Absolutely not," Brittany couldn't help but smile at Santana's enthusiasm.

"Aw, why not, Q? Afraid to show off that ass?"

"Gross." Quinn wrinkled her nose. "But that is way too far."

Brittany tilted her head and said, mildly, "But it's just teasing. Didn't you say that was okay?" Quinn turned to her, frowning in cautious surprise, so Brittany shrugged. "At Celibacy Club." A glance at Santana reassured her. "Teasing, not pleasing?"

"She's right," pressed Santana, eyes alight and smirk tilting wildly. "She's gotcha there, Q-ball."

Quinn glared but acquiesced, hands raised before her in surrender. "Fine, fine, but I am _not _going to 'drop it like it's hot,'" she warned, frowning hard at Santana.

With a roll of her eyes, Santana snarked, "You couldn't drop it if it was on fire, Fabray." She glanced at Quinn's bedside clock with a bored expression. "So let's get this show on the road."

* * *

><p>In the car, Brittany felt like she had at the party on Saturday: like her eyes had turned into little magnets, pulled toward the messy mystery in the seat beside her. Instead of Santana's mouth, though, Brittany couldn't stop staring at the pleats of her Cheerios skirt.<p>

"Honest to Christ, you'd think she'd quit pretending she doesn't know how to move her hips," Santana was complaining, loudly but without real commitment. They were curving down a residential street, windows cracked. Santana's hair was still damp, and a few escaped threads curled near her hairline and shivered in the breeze.

Brittany felt her lips peel apart when she spoke. "Yeah, I mean, we didn't do anything we didn't do that day at Celibacy Club."

At the name, Santana snorted. "Fucking Celibacy Club," she muttered, managing to scowl and look amused. Those dark eyes kept to the road and the window; when Santana's tongue darted out, almost nervously, Brittany wondered what exactly Santana had picked up on. If she'd felt Brittany's eyes, the way Brittany could feel hers.

Santana kept talking. "Fabray thinks she's so fucking pure," she spat, fingers rippling against the wheel. "I can't believe she made us join that club."

It was a rerun of the rant she'd given on the way home from that first meeting, but Brittany didn't mind. The harshness made her watch Santana's face, which meant tearing her eyes away from that skirt.

Before Santana could notice.

"I didn't think it was that bad," said Brittany with a shrug. "It was kind of like Cheerios, except shorter, and sitting down." She wrinkled her nose. "And with a surprise visit from Rumpelstiltskin."

Santana laughed. That soft, light laugh that escaped when she got caught by surprise. "Yeah, it was pretty perfect to watch her squirm," Santana admitted. "Even if it apparently gave her the grind train idea for the assembly."

"It was pretty funny," Brittany tried.

Santana turned her blinker on and shrugged as she twisted the wheel. "I just hope it keeps being funny once we join the Island of Misfit Toys." Her voice was gruff, with a tender, nervous underbelly. Dark eyes slipping across the road and the rows of houses. "I mean, we're gonna be—fuckin' trapped there, once we join."

Cautiously, Brittany ventured, "Do you really think it'll be that bad?" Santana hesitated, hands and gaze stuttering, and Brittany went on. "I mean, I really like dancing," she said softly, "and you're a super good singer."

Mistake. Eyes dark and sharp as daggers. "Maybe," said Santana curtly, turning onto Brittany's street.

"We'll find out tomorrow," Brittany offered, trying to cover with cheeriness. She couldn't decide if it was singing or liking to sing that pressed a button, so she added both to her mental list under _Santana's mom_ and _Puck_.

Though, really, Puck wasn't on the list because he pressed Santana's buttons.

Or—maybe, but not the same way.

As Santana backed quickly out of the driveway, with a short burst of speed, Brittany backed blindly toward her house, blinking through softly-lit slides of Santana with Puck on the field and Santana's skirt swaying to Quinn's music and Santana's hair in thick black tendrils down her smooth shoulders.

Brittany tripped over the step and hurried inside.

* * *

><p>Brittany slowed to a walk halfway to the cemetery and slipped her buzzing phone from her pocket. In the darkness, the backlight felt harsh against the back of her eyes; she squinted to read <em>quinn <em>in block letters on the screen. She pressed the green button and held the phone to her ear, eyeing the shadowy bushes lining the sidewalk. "Hell—"

"Brittany, am I supposed to raise my right hand or my left?" Her voice was sharp. Irritated. Like when she couldn't do the body roll right until the fourth try.

Brittany frowned, scanning the still street absently. "What?"

"At 'forever, forever,'" Quinn snapped, like Brittany should've known.

Stunned, Brittany stopped walking, rooted to the spot by the mental image of Quinn practicing alone in her room. "Um, your left," she answered, trying to think.

She could almost hear Quinn frowning. "Are you sure? I thought it was the right."

"It's the same one as earlier," she replied, "the one you lift over your head."

"That's right, Brittany."

Resuming a quick stride, Brittany said, "I know. That's why I told you that."

A huff. "No, I mean, that's the right hand. Not left."

Brittany bit her lips. "Oh. Well, that's the one, then."

"Thanks, Brittany," Quinn said, flat and harsh like she'd added _for nothing_, and hung up. Brittany drew a deep breath and put her phone away, directing her attention back to the gentle shadows. The moonlight was filtered through a thick gray cloud, painting the street dim and pale, like a fog machine or a haunted horror movie warehouse. The dark leaves hanging down in front of her face—brushed aside with the back of her hand—looked soft and wet, sapped of color.

A window across the street burst into light; Brittany's eyes snapped to it, watching a middle-aged man in sweatpants cross his living room to turn on the television. Brittany pulled her long sleeves closer to her wrists and her feet skittered back into a trot. Then a jog.

Soon, she was sprinting, without knowing why. She was still thinking of Santana's hair in the shower, soaked through into black ropes, the sound of it slapping her skin under the noise of the water. Brittany's shoes against the sidewalk didn't quite drown it out, and as she glanced up at the moon, still veiled by that gray cloud, she could smell the cigarette smoke in Quinn's room: the wisps that escaped the cracked window.

Whirlwind's back, curled over the sill, free hand wrapping around the outside edge like a cat's tail coiling in sleep.

All at once, the memory changed. Fingers brushed down Santana's ribs, cradling her unguarded waist, and as Brittany looked upward and recognized the shark smile and spiny stripe of hair, Santana drew her body up and back against him and—

Brittany snapped away, staring in surprise at the graveyard gate. Panting.

She reached around to grip the stake in her pocket. It felt better. An anchor.

Brittany tossed it to her right hand, wielding it naturally, and vaulted the gate. In the graveyard, she reproachfully eyed the familiar stones. "What're you looking at?" she accused, softly. Color seeped back into the damp grass and Brittany looked up to see the cloud peeling away from the sliver of moon. A smile spread across her face, like a drink spilled across a table; she wondered if Santana could see how bright the stars looked, with the moon speaking so quietly, for once.

Then—gulping—she realized Santana probably wasn't staring out the window.

Adjusting her grip on the stake, tapping the phone in her pocket with her free hand, Brittany shook her head from side to side and took bouncing steps along the path. "It's fine," she assured Thomas Reddington's headstone, brow softened. "She's totally fine. And so am I."

Brittany bit her lip and reined in her thoughts. Trying to at least trap them inside her head. Still, another snuck past her lips: "At least I'm not—"

Pain. More than she'd felt in a while, from any outside force. Brittany rolled instinctively to her left, flipping to her feet and raising the stake, and felt her stomach icing over. It was the varsity player from the hallway. Kerfuffle. Carpopsky. Kurtofsky.

Before his name settled out of the jumble, he was swinging at her, his dead eyes narrowed. Brittany yelped as she ducked, darting around him to keep out of reach.

"Hold—still—" he was grunting, some strange, scary mix of sleepwalking and vaguely murderous. Brittany's elbow caught him in the kidney, above his hip, but he head-butted her—maybe accidentally—as he doubled over.

Staggering backward, Brittany's right hand clenched around—nothing. With a quick, dazed survey, she spotted her stake several yards away, where he'd first tackled her.

She cried out when his fist connected with her chest, stumbling back a few more steps until her tailbone met cool granite. "Stop!" she yelled, trying to distract him and kick his knees out at the same time.

Kermitteny held his arms out, wide, charging toward her like a bear. She dipped under his left arm, bringing her knee up into the same kidney, and this time, his forehead collided with the headstone.

Cursing under his breath, Karofsky—that was his name!—reared back and aimed beady eyes at Brittany as she weaved among the graves. He growled like that demon from June—the one whose name sounded like Cowlick or something—and barreled toward her, fist cocked.

With a practiced motion, Brittany crouched and bent at the waist, tilting him face-down along her back and flipping him onto the grass. She heard his lungs empty, like rolling up a half-full air mattress, and she spun quickly—cautiously—

Not quick enough. His ridged knuckles smacked into the edge of her ribs, right by her diaphragm; she could feel the muscles of her stomach against his fingers, for a white-hot instant, before the force shot her backward into another headstone. It bit into her lower back and she winced, skipping aside to dodge his next blow and bringing her right foot up in a desperate roundhouse to the groin.

Karofsky wheezed, buckling around his center like a dented locker, and his flat eyes flashed in the starlight. They seemed to be clearing, slightly, the same way his face was. Like he'd fallen asleep in class and just awakened. He cupped himself gingerly, with a grimace, and backed hesitantly away from Brittany.

Brittany forced her hands to stay at her sides, letting the throb between her ribs and her back keep time. She stared at Karofsky carefully, but he kept retreating until he passed Brittany's stake on the ground; he twisted away from her and broke into a limping jog.

Once he made it to the gate—Brittany could see him carefully unlatch it—Brittany slumped heavily against Theresa Yvesant's marker. She pressed her palm flat against her ribs, gritting her teeth against the pain but appreciating the warmth. Her back felt more like a kink where it sloped toward the grass; stretching this way, slouched naturally, felt better.

And, anyway, her ribs were pretty much stealing the show, pain-wise.

As her heart rate slowed, Brittany drew a deep, calming breath—and instantly regretted it. She squeezed her eyes shut against the feeling under her palm. Like her muscles were tearing apart. Maybe not quite that bad—more like sandpaper with a soaked washcloth over it, too rough and too heavy, scraping against her lungs.

After a few minutes, taking cautious, shallow breaths, Brittany canted to the right and used her free right hand to push up onto her feet. She shuffled over to her stake, forcing herself to bend to pick it up. She grunted against the pain in her ribs.

Minutes later, shamefully opening the gate and passing through it, Brittany eyed the darkened streets and wondered where they all went, once they ran away.

* * *

><p>In the basement bathroom, running the tap on low to keep quiet, Brittany felt her eyes start to sting and a drop wandering too slowly down her cheek. It tickled—and hurt, somehow—and she dropped the gauze in her hand to smear it off her skin.<p>

The ice pack helped, but she knew from the deep, soft pain underneath that crying would be a mistake. Every measured breath pressed painfully against the injury; sobs would be infinitely worse.

Brittany caught her lower lip in her teeth and flinched faintly, releasing it, when she tasted blood. She kept forgetting her cut lip, and though it barely hurt in comparison, the feel of iron along her tongue smacked of failure.

She swallowed, hard, against the tears behind her eyes and her split lip and the receding soreness in her hand and the way her throat kept trying to choke her breaths into sobs. The blue packet was too cold—a stinging, arctic cold, like that time she went out in winter in pajama pants to get the mail and Katie pushed her into a snow pile, the ice seeping through the cloth and flesh and into her bones—but it helped, somehow, to think of the cold, to think of the ice instead of everything else, to remember that day in Indianapolis, sitting in front of a fire with hot chocolate and no idea that monsters were real.

Brittany scowled at the wrap and peeled the gauze back away from her skin. She began again, securing the ice pack flush against her, pushing against her aching ribs and the sinking feeling in her stomach nearby. After three wraps around, Brittany secured the bandage with small, silver clips from the off-brand cardboard box. She closed the box up, like it had never been opened, and stood—cautiously—to tuck it back into the edge of the medicine cabinet.

As she shut the mirrored door, she stared critically at the battered mess staring back at her. Same blonde hair, slowly escaping her ponytail; same ears, red from the cold water she'd splashed on her face; same blue eyes, dark with pain instead of robin's-egg light, like her mother's.

But the rest—the red gash on her lip, the light bruise at her temple; the fabric looped wide beneath her sports bra, and the lump on one side—was unfamiliar. Despite the years of injuries from gymnastics and dance and cheering, the purple bruises and blistered hands she'd worn proudly, the year she'd spent with Slayer strength had made her happily unused to visible injuries in a way she could hardly remember. Sports had kept her in bandages and soreness since she was little, but Slayer strength—

As Brittany looked up again at the splotch on her temple, already receding from a wide circle to a dime-sized smudge of faint gray, she tried to remember the last time she'd been hurt enough to feel it.

After she washed her face again—hoping, maybe, that it would rinse off her damaged lip and the mark on her forehead, the way it rinsed off the tear tracks—Brittany turned off the faucet and sat on the toilet seat, gripping her phone in her hand as she stared blankly at her t-shirt on the bathroom floor.

With a painfully deep breath against the sobs still lurking in her throat, Brittany scrolled through her contacts and called Beiste's number.


	16. Interlude

This part is set in Indiana the **past**. The next chapter will return to the present.

* * *

><p>INTERLUDE<p>

* * *

><p>Jennifer's talking about shoes again, so Brittany focuses on the pull of her muscles as she stretches on the floor.<p>

"We should totally go shopping this weekend," gushes Caroline as usual, and Hannah just nods like a bobblehead.

Brittany zones in on the words—processing them a beat too late, like an echo inside her head—as Jennifer stares at her. "Well, Brittany? Are you in?" When Brittany offers her a blank look, curling her left leg in to stretch the other side, Jennifer emphasizes with rising pitch, "Shopping tomorrow?"

"Can't," answers Brittany, turning her eyes back to where her fingers bend back the toe of her sneaker. "I have dance in the afternoon."

Caroline suggests, "So we'll go later," and Jennifer looks at her with a disgusted eye roll.

"I have a date tomorrow night," she scoffs like Caroline's stupid. "It's Saturday."

Brittany shrugs, releasing her foot and leaning back comfortably on her palms. "You guys can go without me."

Jennifer eyes her critically; Hannah pouts. "You never hang out with us," Hannah complains.

"I see you all the time," says Brittany, and she doesn't smile even though she knows she should.

Though Jennifer is being noticeably silent—probably annoyed no one has asked who she's going out with—Caroline chimes in, "Only at school." At Brittany's helpless shrug, she whines, "You're always so busy."

As if it's a trigger, Brittany looks at the clock and climbs to her feet. "Sorry—next time," she promises, though they all know by now not to count on her availability. And—yeah, she could probably skip dance sometimes, but she likes dance a lot more than she likes shoes.

"Where are you going _now_?" asks Jennifer.

Brittany shrugs and traces the edges of her green cheer skirt with her fingertips. "I gotta change before gymnastics," she says like she says every Friday.

As Brittany's leaving the locker room, tugging the sleeves of her leotard to cover her wrists, she hears Jennifer on the other side of the lockers. "Whatever, she has to do that stuff," Jennifer's saying in the voice she uses when she wants someone to ask her what she means.

Hannah obliges: "Why?"

"Because," says Jennifer in a grave whisper, "she's not going to get into college otherwise. Not with her grades."

Brittany flinches; her feet slow almost to a stop, even as her ears ache from listening.

"So?" asks Caroline.

"So," hisses Jennifer knowledgeably, "she has to get into a conservatory or onto a team. Otherwise she'll end up Brittany the barista until she's too old to dance at all."

Brittany swallows the lump in her throat and pushes out the doors into the gymnasium.

* * *

><p>Brittany's never been shy, and it takes all of seven minutes to talk the guys clustered in the back parking lot into letting her ride one of their dirt bikes. She pushes her jaw against the chin guard of her borrowed helmet, liking the way it cups her skull so firmly and purposefully, and tears away from the group with a firm twist of the handles.<p>

The stale air sneaks under the helmet and chaps the skin of her throat; she's going too fast, probably, since she can feel her fingers getting rubbed raw in the wind and her shirt whipping against her waist. She ignores the bite and urges the bike faster, dipping into the asphalt as she turns, so tight and low her face almost brushes the faded yellow paint on the empty parking space.

Distantly, as if from the bottom of a pool, she hears whooping and cheering. As she rights the bike, speeding into another lazy zigzag across the lot, she catches sight of the pack of boys, several of them clapping and one whistling with two fingers in his mouth. She grins and eyes the front wheel, flicking her gaze between it and the path ahead, before pulling the handles toward her experimentally.

The bike lifts from the ground—just a bit—and she feels her balance shifting dangerously. Brittany shoves forward, forcing the tire back to the ground, and one more nose-to-gravel turn brings her to a squealing halt in front of her newfound friends. They look at her like she's some kind of goddess; like they wish they'd known about her before, so they could've built her an altar and sacrificed some cheese puffs or something. One—the one who whistled before—is close to her again, patting her shoulder as she braces her feet on the pavement, and her hair hits him in the face when she tugs the helmet off.

He doesn't seem to mind, and he's giving her the look she's seen too many times to count. The one that means he wants her. She pushes the helmet to his chest; he has to pull his hands off her to grab hold of it when she lets go.

Brittany's dismounting when another boy in a Cheeto-stained t-shirt asks, "So, are you, like, joining the team now?"

She glances around at an array of curious faces and threads her fingers through her hair to tame it in the breeze. "You guys are a team?"

At that moment, an older guy—a teacher? She tries to remember—weaves to the front of the pack, next to her and Handsy and the bike, and says, "A club team." He offers his hand. "I'm Henri St. Pierre, the staff sponsor."

She smiles at him and shakes his hand firmly. "I'm Brittany Pierce."

Confusion and recognition mix on his face. At the same moment, Brittany places him: woodshop. Maybe he knows her from the hallways or other teachers. "Nice to meet you," he tells her, like he thinks she didn't notice his expression. He nods at the bike. "That really was some nice riding." Cheeto boy's head bobs up and down, and a few other guys nod appreciatively or mutter bitterly. "Any chance you'd consider joining?"

"Sure," she says with a grin, without realizing how hard it will probably be to do this on top of dance and gymnastics and now cheerleading. But—a tiny smile worms through Henri's worried expression, right as Brittany asks about practice and does she need to get her own bike and what's a club team anyway, and by the time her dad picks her up at the circle in front of the school, Brittany's pretty sure it will all work out.

* * *

><p>"Unbelievable," Brittany's dad is scoffing at the television, high-pitched, as Brittany closes the front door with her hip and bends to untie her sneakers on Saturday afternoon. She drops her keys on the table and her dance bag by her shoes and steps into the den.<p>

He's leaned forward in the armchair, fingers tense around a can of Mt. Chill, staring hard at the TV. "What's up?" Brittany asks. She steps into the room and scrutinizes the flashing colors on the screen. The local reporter looks into the camera with nervous eyes and a shaking voice. The volume is low.

He settles back in the chair, like he's forcing himself to for her benefit. His knuckles are still white against the can's dark red logo. "Another attack," he mutters. Brittany scans the ribbon across the bottom of the screen. Neck rupture. Third in two weeks. Random victims. No leads.

"Where?" she asks, trying to find it on the screen.

He touches his mustache with his free hand, scratching anxiously. "Just outside the city." He's glancing at the window behind the television, eyes on the latches.

Brittany crosses to them and checks the locks, clicking them open and shut to be sure. "How many this time?" she asks, retracing her steps casually, folding her arms and trying not to think about how long they've been following this story.

"Two." His mouth is a thin line. His thumb picks at the rim of the can. Brittany can hear the aluminum crinkle under his fingertips. He finally looks up at her, then looks away just as quickly. Guilt smears across his face; he feels bad for upsetting her. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, reaching for the remote.

As he begins to ask her about her day, Brittany cuts in, "So they really think he's left Cleveland?"

Her dad sighs and considers. "Seems like it," he admits, clearly hesitant to worry her. "But they'll get him." His gaze drops into the Mt. Chill in his hand. He looks unconvinced as his eyes work back up to Brittany's. A natural smile settles back across his lips as he takes her in: mismatched socks, faded gray sweatpants, sports bra peeking out of her t-shirt's collar, hair sweat-stuck to her forehead where it escaped her ponytail. "How was your day?"

Brittany softens under his soft voice. "Pretty good," she says and shrugs, plopping onto the sofa beside him and running her thumbnail over the worn ribbing. "Klaas still wants me to go back to ballet, but I told him I don't have time."

Her dad glances out the window again, at the waning sunlight. "Maybe next year, honey," he offers gently, but Brittany knows ballet is over for her.

_Skrit_. The bared threads on the rim of the cushion snap back into place from under Brittany's nail. "Some guys were riding dirtbikes behind the school yesterday."

She feels his gaze snap back to her, so she keeps looking at her hand on the couch cushion. He's quiet a second too long, while he thinks about how to tell her that motorcycles were only okay when he rode them, and they're not safe, and she shouldn't even think about it.

_Skrit_.

Despite the parental concern churning in his gut—Brittany can see it in his face in the corner of her eye: that scrunched forehead he gets when he's eaten too much chili or used the wrong salsa at the Mexican place two blocks over—his curiosity overtakes him. "What kind of bikes were they riding?"

Brittany grins.

* * *

><p>She's setting the table for dinner when she remembers what she's been pushing out of her mind since class yesterday. It burns little holes in all her thoughts, so she hardly speaks at dinner, even when Katie starts throwing crumbs of bread onto Brittany's plate. After they eat, as she helps her mother stack dishes by the sink, Brittany clears her throat and asks, "Mom, can I talk to you for a sec?"<p>

"Of course, sweetie," says her mother, scraping Katie's untouched vegetables into a Tupperware container. As she dunks the cleared plate into the soapy water, she flicks her clear blue eyes at Brittany, and Brittany feels shame rise heated in her cheeks.

She grabs a dishtowel, even though none of the dishes are clean yet, and rubs it nervously between her fingers. "I need you to sign something," she admits.

"Sure," her mother says easily. She retrieves a bowl from the dishwater and scrubs it with a sponge. "Is it a field trip, or—?"

She glances at Brittany again, and Brittany's cheeks burn hotter. She swallows and says, too quietly, "It's a test." Her mother hums curiously, waiting for her to speak up, and she forces the words out louder. "It's a test. I need you to sign it."

Her mother looks confused, but it's better than the way her face darkens in understanding a second later. The sympathy of her upturned eyebrows hurts more than disappointment would have. "Oh, sweetheart," she begins, but Brittany cuts her off.

"I just need you to sign it, okay?" she says, taking the bowl from her mother's hands and drying it with determination.

Her face feels hotter than the dishwater on the bowl. She knows it's red. It makes her feel more embarrassed.

"Yeah, okay, honey," her mother is assuring gently, resting her hands on the rim of the sink. "Do you want me to do it now?"

The way her words are so soft and gentle—the way she looks at Brittany so sadly—the way she's not even _surprised_—it's all too much.

"Yeah," says Brittany hoarsely, throwing the towel on the counter and turning to escape. "I'll get it."

* * *

><p>Long after dinner, once Katie's been forced into bed and her parents are watching a movie on FX downstairs, Brittany's sitting in her room staring helplessly at her math extra credit assignment and her mother's signature next to the D- on the test she's supposed to make up for. She's trying to read the problems, but her eyes keep coming back to the D- circled in red Sharpie, and she squeezes her eyes shut because they feel big and dry the way they do before she starts crying.<p>

Brittany drags her arm across her eyes and opens her phone. She stares at the background—Lord Tubbington, perched haughtily on the arm of the living room sofa—and opens her last texts to Caroline. _sry i didnt make it 2day_. She scrolls past the rest—Caroline complaining about her parents grounding her—to where the conversation stalled, and opens a new draft.

_whats up w jens date 2nite?_

Caroline replies faster than Jennifer would have: _wat do u mean? she sed it was w jake but i think there done_. Brittany glances at her dark window and debates, but in the end she can't stop herself. Or maybe she doesn't want to.

She texts Jake. _hey jakey watcha doin 2nite? :)_

Predictably, he invites her over with his first reply. An hour and a half later, once she's snuck into his house and let him make shots from his sleeping parents' liquor cabinet until he thinks he's seduced her, she's undoing his belt buckle in his room and reassuring herself, over the faint, sick feeling in her stomach, that at least she will always be better than Jennifer at this.

* * *

><p>In her dreams, she's never failed a test. Maybe she's never even taken a test. She's chasing a monster and she feels the way she does when she does flips off the vault or handstands on the dance floor: like she's finally in the right place at the right time.<p>

"Come back here!" she's shouting, but the words aren't English when they leave her tongue. She's sprinting like she did on track in middle school: like if she hesitates, even for a second, her feet will windmill out from under her like Wile E. Coyote, and she'll land on her face.

And the monster will get away.

Her clothes are smooth and silky against her skin; she notices embroidery on her sleeves when her hands flash in front of her. She can see the monster's blue clothes as he skids around a corner, shouting, "Fuck off, Slayer!" in what has to be Chinese. He thinks the shadows will hide him; he thinks he can melt into the darkness and be saved.

But she is a thing of darkness, too, and when her foot collides with the back of his head in a leap not totally dissimilar to a move she learned in dance class, she feels a peg of wood in her hand like it's meant to be there.

Like it's been there since she was born.

It's that thought—certain and strange—that follows her into wakefulness as her dream-self buries the stake deep in the monster's chest.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Herrick thumbs through the pages Brittany hands her—Brittany can see the circled D- still, where it glows on the page like heated iron—and looks at Brittany the way she looks at the kid in the wheelchair. The pity stings, and Brittany murmurs, "Let me know if there's anything else I should do," hoping her quiet voice will mask the way she feels wounded.<p>

Outside the classroom, Jennifer—and, consequently, Hannah—is waiting.

"What's up?" asks Jennifer, eyes sly and cold.

Brittany shifts the books in her arms and edges past them, toward her next class. "I had to turn something in," she mutters.

"What was it? We didn't have homework," says Hannah with a frown as she skips to catch up.

"Just a late assignment," Brittany answers quietly, but a glance at Jennifer's slight smirk tells her only Hannah has accepted the lie. Because she's tired—or maybe because she's tired of seeing Jennifer wear that expression—she asks Jennifer, "How was your date on Saturday?"

Jennifer sniffs suspiciously and adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder. "It was fine, but Jake's kind of a meathead."

That could mean so many things—especially since Brittany's not sure if Jennifer knows or not—so Brittany just nods with the blank look her friends have come to accept from her. "Did you get those shoes you wanted?" she asks, unable to remember any details beyond that.

Jennifer sighs with frustration. It's easy to distract her like this. "I wanted to, but we couldn't go to Nieman's because there was this, like, total dead guy right in front of the store."

Brittany almost stops; it takes effort to keep walking. "Like on the news?"

"Who cares?" asks Jennifer, who definitely never watches the news. "He was totally being all dead right in front of Nieman Marcus, so I'm gonna have to go back next weekend now."

The teeth of the dream monster and the gashes in the neck of the victim on the news distract Brittany until Hannah asks, "Wasn't that your class back there?"

"Oh," Brittany says, and she tries not to look at Jennifer's self-satisfied smirk. "Right." She ducks back into the classroom and finally notices her white knuckles, stark against the binder she's gripping against her chest.

* * *

><p>Brittany's trying wheelies again in the back lot on her dad's old bike when she notices Henri at the edge of the pavement. She does one last spin and scoots over to him, stomping on the kickstand and tugging off the helmet covered in scratches and stickers for '90s bands. "Hi," she grins, and the smile he wears looks shallow, stuck onto his concerned expression like the stickers peeling under Brittany's fingers.<p>

"Where'd you get a bike so fast?" he asks, touching the gauges gingerly. Three of his fingers have Band-Aids between the first knuckles.

"My dad's," she supplies, looking at the faded paint. The sun bleached the red into a burnt orange, but Brittany can see the original deep crimson when she wipes the dirt off of the inside curves. "The helmet, too." She taps the visor and the sound draws Henri's eyes.

"You're lucky you're so tall," he says, aiming that sad, feather-light smile back at her, "or you couldn't ride it."

Brittany laughs. Usually, acting happy and casual helps other people act that way. "I guess," she encourages as he draws his hand away from her bike. She shifts her leg, feeling the weight of the bike hovering between her knees. She's just tall enough to stand without dismounting.

With a gesture toward the lot behind her, Brittany says, "I just wanted to get used to riding it before practice. I mean, that day you were here was the first time I rode." She shrugs.

Henri's eyebrows arch in surprise. "Really?" He sounds impressed—like he didn't expect to be this impressed. "You're a natural."

Brittany's cheeks warm from the compliment. "Thanks," she says, bashful. She swings the helmet by its chin, bumping her knee as it passes, and rests her hand on the bike's seat. "Um, if you have any suggestions"—she looks back at the lot again, like it's a visual aid—"I really wanna learn more."

He eyes her carefully and nods. His face is hard to decipher. "What?" she asks, eventually, growing uneasy under his stare.

He shakes his head. "Keep practicing," he instructs, nodding at the bike. "Being comfortable with the machine is key, before you start worrying about the rest. And this'll be different on dirt, anyway."

Brittany nods. "I figured I'd just ride around here and practice turns," she says, mapping a route of twists and spirals around the pavement.

"Awesome." He pats the front of her bike twice, like he's bidding goodbye to an obedient dog. "I'll see you at practice tomorrow."

* * *

><p>Jake texts her at the end of the week, when it's been long enough that his friends won't call him a pussy. He tries to be cool: <em>hey babe wassup<em>. Brittany's freshly showered and fed, body warm and tight from gymnastics, but she tells him she's busy. Jennifer's done with him, and Brittany's never been interested in repeat performances.

As she sends her reply—_sry im out_—she considers going for a ride on the dirt bike, but driving on the road always makes her nervous, since she doesn't have a license and the bike is likely not street-legal. Instead, she sits on the sofa next to Katie and sinks heavily into her. "Brittany! Get _off_!" shrieks Katie, pushing ineffectively against Brittany's shoulders.

"Can't! Agh!" groans Brittany, nestling deeper into the cushion and Katie's little abdomen and waving her arm dramatically. "The couch is quicksand! Save me!"

"God, Brittany, you're so _weird_!" gasps Katie as she begins to giggle. Brittany blows a raspberry against Katie's belly and Katie squirms.

"Quiet down, girls," says Brittany's mom, who smiles as she settles into the armchair. "Your father's sleeping."

Brittany and Katie smile sheepishly; Katie pokes Brittany's ribs as Brittany sits upright. Brittany nudges her back and apologizes to her mother.

Her mother glances at the television—Brittany's arrival had drowned out a repeat of _Spongebob_—and props her feet up on the coffee table to sort through the mail in her lap. "Did you talk to your teacher?" she asks Brittany without looking up.

It's predictable; she always waits a while, after things like this, before she brings it up again. Still, Brittany feels like ice chips are settling inside her chest—like the bullet shrapnel she saw in that X-ray in biology class. "Yeah," she answers cautiously, in a tone that tries to end the conversation.

"And?" Her mother tosses a thick catalogue to the floor and glances at Brittany expectantly.

Brittany pointedly looks at the television, like she hasn't seen this episode four times. "I don't know yet," she says with a shrug.

"Be quiet," whines Katie. "I can't hear what they're saying."

Brittany looks hesitantly at her mother, who doesn't scold Katie. A credit card offer falls on top of the catalogue. "Well, let me know," she comments, and Brittany's not sure what she wants to know about.

It hangs over her head while she pretends the show's jokes are still funny the fifth time around.

* * *

><p>A week before their first race, Henri offers to take Brittany to the real track, where the club practices one day a week during Brittany's dance class.<p>

"Don't worry about it," he always insists when she apologizes for missing it. He wears his twitchy, too-shallow smile, but Brittany doesn't ask.

In his rumbling pickup, ten minutes into a twenty-five minute drive, Henri asks, "How're your classes going?"

He sounds nervous, but Brittany can't figure out why. If he were like Mr. Nicholson, the heavyset photography teacher who keeps trying to get freshman girls alone in the darkroom, she would feel apprehensive. But Henri is quiet and kind, and by now, after enough practices that he even smiles at her a little when they pass in the hallway, Brittany knows he's just trying to say something and his timidity is stealing his words.

So, to reassure him, Brittany smiles brightly and lets him catch her eye when he glances away from the road. "Classes are good." Her brow furrows a little. "Harder than last year, though."

His lip twitches. Brittany starts to suspect he's not totally listening. "Anything else—different? This year, I mean."

Again, Brittany gets a vague creepy-crawly feeling, but it's Henri. She just feels thankful no one else is here to misinterpret the way he's phrasing things.

His awkwardness is strangely comforting, though. At least this way, Brittany knows she's not the only person always saying the wrong things.

"Not really," she says with a shrug, trying to think if anything is different. Today, she felt kind of funny; gymnastics felt super easy, but she also felt hungry all day, so she just chalked it up to eating a supersized breakfast. OJ has always energized her, or so her mother says.

At the motocross track, though, the bike and the dirt and the cold air and the helmet nudging the nape of her neck all feel almost too good. The kind of good she can _taste_. And the throbbing engine between her knees is beating in her bones, like her heavy pulse or maybe a drumbeat.

She breathes it in—lets the thrill shudder through her, like the fine bones of her fingers rattling around the shaking handles or the swift bend of her knees as she flies over a hill or dip. But then—at the last curve on her third lap, still getting the feel of the course, still reeling and wired from all of it beating inside her, Brittany tugs the handlebars lightly like she always does and they jerk way too far, like she's pulled with all her strength.

The bike rips sideways under her and she bucks awkwardly, foot and ankle caught under the bike's side as everything grinds to a halt at the bottom of the incline.

Henri is beside her in an instant, making hysterical yelps that are probably supposed to mean he's worried about her and hopes she's okay. He yanks at the bike with panic rising in his throat.

"I'm okay," Brittany chokes through gritted teeth. She's not a hundred percent—her tailbone feels like it got smacked with a hammer and she can feel a bad rug burn down her legs, even under the riding gear—but she's more okay than he seems to think, and the way he's pulling at the heavy bike is making her worry he's going to throw his back out.

She pushes herself up on her elbows and shunts her helmet off. She adjusts her free leg beneath her and shoves the motorcycle.

It moves easily under her palms—way easier than she expected—and she has to grab at the far side of the seat to keep it from falling onto Henri.

He recovers and helps her balance the bike. He knocks the kickstand with his foot and she staggers to her feet, rolling her ankle gingerly, and they make shocked, hesitant eye contact.

Together, as if in slow motion, they look at the bike. Easily a few hundred pounds.

Brittany's ankle cracks. She wets her lips and hesitantly looks at him again. His face is serious. Slowly, voice shaking, he asks, "Sure nothing else is different this year?"

Like on the track, Brittany feels her heart slogging against her breastbone. She can hear his words, but she can't understand them. "Like what?" she asks, wondering distantly if she should be afraid of the answer.

Henri sighs, and it shakes the way his question did. His hands flex on the bike's seat. "Brittany…"

"What?" she repeats, and she feels that panic she was wondering about starting to creep into her throat, making it raspy and raw.

"I know this is gonna sound crazy," he begins slowly, and Brittany is definitely starting to feel a little afraid of the answer, "but there's… a reason for this."

Brittany's eyebrows press up and together. "For—practicing?" she asks, trying to understand.

Henri looks like he's going to puke. "For you—being able to lift this." He taps the bike with his index finger.

Brittany's eyes trickle down to his finger on the bike. At their exact intersection. She's starting to feel kind of like she's going to puke, and he hasn't even said anything yet. "Drinking tons of milk?" she asks in a small voice.

He looks away, then, at the building marking the course's entrance and the treetops in the distance. "You're… kind of like a superhero," he says, and immediately winces, like he's rehearsed this speech and already skipped to the middle.

"Like Supergirl?" Brittany asks, pretty sure she would have noticed before now if she could fly or use X-ray vision.

He shakes his head, gesturing against the bike, "No, I mean—" Again, he scans the trees. His voice hushes and his eyes return to hers. His glitter nervously. "Have you ever dreamed that you're somebody else?"

Brittany glances aside and swallows against a sudden dryness in her throat. "Like Supergirl?" she asks again, because she isn't sure what else to say, and the name cracks painfully.

"Like a princess in India," says Henri, "or a Chinese prostitute."

As a blush rises to her cheeks, Brittany stutters, "I—I'm not sure—"

"Think, Brittany," he urges, and he looks at her like he's put his last chips in the middle of the poker table. "Haven't you had dreams of fighting, dreams that feel like memories? Dreams that are all tied together because everybody calls you—"

"Slayer," breathes Brittany, barely audible.

Henri licks his lips and shifts his weight nervously, like the younger girls in Brittany's dance class right before the first recital. "All those monsters they tell you aren't real—"

Brittany's brows tip upward. "Like Freddie?" she asks, hopefully.

"Yes—No," he says, face conflicted, "like vampires and werewolves and demons." He's whispering now, intense and rushed, looking her in the eyes seriously. "They're all real."

Although Brittany wants to believe him, because she trusts him, she can't seem to process what he's saying. She looks over her shoulder at the trees he's been watching so warily. When she turns back to him, she asks softly, "Like in _Twilight_?" and knows from her sinking stomach that she's wrong.

Henri makes a noise that Brittany suspects is his version of scoffing. "No, not like _Twilight_." He's indignant, and Brittany knows he'd be mad if she were somebody else. "Like for real," he continues, and she softens her expression and lets him go on. "Like, big sharp teeth and no pulse, kill you quick as look at you," he insists. "No sparkling." His lip curls.

"Okay," Brittany says, still trying to keep up. She searches his face, feeling strangely anxious, and, as his words work gradually into her brain, she finally asks, "But what's it got to do with me?" She touches the bike, a few inches from Henri's bandaged fingers. "Supergirl?"

He draws his hands away from the seat and clasps them together. Brittany can hear the fabric of the Band-Aids rub together where he twists his fingers together in excitement. His eyes are alight. Brittany's never seen him like this—eager to share.

"You," he says and points for emphasis, "are the universe's response to all of _them_." He gestures widely, to the great big world—or maybe to _them_. Brittany looks around, like the monsters are about to surround them out of thin air. "Into every generation, there is a chosen one," he says emphatically, and it sounds like he's quoting something. "She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness."

Brittany swallows the lump in her throat, the way she feels like this realization is swallowing her. "Me? Stand alone?" Her voice is as small as she feels, and she shrinks away from Henri, letting the bike act as a barricade. She licks her lips; they've gone dry, suddenly, like a change in the wind.

She's shaking her head, more firmly each time, but he softens and steps forward. "No, see, that's why—you're suddenly so strong." His gaze flickers to the bike and back to her. He's back to his old nerves. "It's not like you're the same as before, but now you're supposed to fight evil," he says quickly, and he's ridden straight through the big bubble of things Brittany's so afraid of. Her head-shaking slows and she grows still. "You're stronger," he says gently, leaning on the bike again, "and faster, more than you ever have been and more than anyone else ever will be."

He's looking at her so seriously, and Brittany shivers with the same whistling thrill she felt on the bike. Like she can feel every part of herself, heavy and tense with—something.

Something like _power_.

Still, it feels like too much, and she looks at him uneasily, unable to believe this is happening. "How do you know?" she asks, about the monsters and the universe and her place among them.

"Because every Slayer," he says solemnly, pointing straight at her heart, "has a Watcher." He pulls his hand toward himself and presses his thumb to his chest. "That's me." When she tilts her head, quizzically, he explains, "I'm supposed to train you. Teach you. Prepare you."

"Prepare me?"

He nods, watching her reaction. "To fight."

Brittany's face constricts. "Fight? Fight what?"

"The monsters," he insists. "The forces of darkness."

Again, she looks fearfully at the trees. "You mean—" her voice drops to a whisper. "They're here?"

He shrugs, but gestures widely. "Not here, necessarily. But they're all around us. You need to keep the balance." His hands drop to his sides. "When they rise, you slay," he says, like he's apologizing for lacking a better explanation.

Brittany's teeth grate together. "No," she whispers, feeling fear seep through the surge of power, like cold rain sinking through a thin shirt. "No, I can't do this." She twists her fingers together on the bike seat and looks at him, imploring, "I can't do this, not alone, I'm not strong enough." She bites her lip against the salty sting behind her eyes. "I'm not right for this."

Henri looks contrite, suddenly; he touches the bike like he'd rather be touching her shoulder. "Yes, you are," he assures gently. "That's why you had those dreams. To prepare you for this moment."

Twisting to glance again at the trees, the strange symbol of her new fears, Brittany whimpers, "I don't feel prepared."

Finally, with his brows pushed together like he's fighting himself, Henri takes her hands in his and catches her eyes solemnly. "I'll help you," he promises, and his firm gaze makes Brittany's heartbeat slow just a bit. "I'll prepare you." When she takes a deep breath, he cracks a little smile. "That's what I'm here for, after all," he jokes nervously.

On the ride back, with the bike strapped tightly to the truck bed and Brittany's fingers worrying the edge of her seatbelt, Brittany asks in a trembling voice, "You really think I can do it?"

With a sincere almost-grin, he says, unusually sure, "I do." Her mouth curls hesitantly upward and he shrugs. "Plus, I peeked in on gymnastics practice, and I don't think there's gonna be much for me to teach you. With a background like that, you won't have any trouble."

Brittany chews on the words and stares out the window briefly. "But what about the other stuff?" she asks, almost too quietly for him to hear over the choking engine. In her peripheral vision, she sees his head turn toward her. She bites her lips and finally asks, like a confession, "What if I'm not smart enough?"

When he doesn't reply immediately, Brittany turns toward him and accidentally meets his eyes. He looks sad. Despondent. Almost—empathetic, but Brittany wonders, uneasily, if it's actually pity she's seeing. "Brittany," he's saying, "you're the chosen one." He shakes his head, like he can't figure out how to explain it—but again, Brittany wonders if he really just pities her. Like Mrs. Herrick. Like all her teachers.

"It isn't a mistake," he finally says, and he could mean so many things, Brittany doesn't reply. When she turns back to the window without smiling back, Henri sighs and adjusts his hands on the steering wheel. "You were chosen for a reason," he insists, "and you're gonna do great."

Brittany watches the trees pass by and wonders if he's right.

* * *

><p>After she washes the grime of the course down the shower drain, Brittany stands in front of the mirror and stares critically at the lines of her body. She likes it, mostly; it does what she demands of it, and the shadows of muscle make boys like Jake wipe drool from their lips.<p>

She touches her arm, almost hesitantly. It looks the same in the mirror, but now, somehow, it can support the weight of a full-sized dirt bike. She thinks for a moment and leans down to retrieve the dumbbell that works as the bathroom doorstop.

When she lifts it, the fifteen pounds feels like a feather.

Brittany swallows nervously and switches it to her other hand. No difference. She tosses it in the air, and it falls as fast as fifteen pounds should—but when it strikes her palm, it's easy to break its fall.

Her eyes flick back to the mirror—to the familiar curve of her shoulder and divot along her forearm—and starts to think that maybe there is something seriously supernatural about this after all.

* * *

><p>Two nights later, when Brittany's wondering if she should give Jake a second run just to see if he notices the new strength in her grip, she gets a call on her cell phone from Henri.<p>

Despite all he's told her, she's surprised when he tells her to meet him at the graveyard. She slips out her window and crosses town on foot, still enjoying with awed wonder that she can sprint most of the way without tiring.

"What's up?" she asks brightly, though the gate on her left makes her uneasy.

Henri's Band-Aids have migrated to his last three fingers; she notices when he flexes his hands together anxiously. "I know you wanted more time, but with everything that's going on…"

The way he trails off makes Brittany even more worried. Though her instinct is to play dumb—an act that's followed her from childhood—she finds herself solemnly asking, "You mean all the murders?"

Henri nods, and something inside her perks up when he's not surprised that she's been paying attention to the danger creeping in on them. "Neck ruptures," he echoes the news reporters, with a derisive snort but no smile.

He unlatches the gate and pushes it open for her. When she hesitates, he nods toward the cemetery and urges her inside with a hand on her shoulder.

"Why do neck ruptures bring us here?" she asks shakily, already suspecting the answer. Remembering the monsters from her dreams.

Henri winds through the stones, squinting at the names. As she falls into step behind him, he explains, "All of the victims have—risen, so the killer's not killing. He's siring."

"What's that mean?"

Henri pauses to look at her seriously. "It means he's making more of them." She bites her lips and he nods. "Vampires."

As he resumes his careful search, she asks, "What're we supposed to do?" It's then that she notices the wooden handles in his back pocket. Too thick for drum sticks.

Her heart almost stops—or maybe it's beating out of her chest. "Are those for—"

Henri looks up and sees her gesturing silently at his pocket. He gulps and takes the stakes out, pressing one into Brittany's palm. "Yeah," he says, and at least he sounds just as nervous as she is.

"I'm not ready for this," she chokes out. He stops in front of a grave and his hand twitches against his thigh. "I'm not," she repeats, because maybe he didn't hear her.

He looks at her and says, "This is it. This is him."

Brittany clutches the stake to her chest and glances between Henri's firm expression and the cold, still headstone. "I can't do this," she whispers, quiet as the wind around them.

"You can," he says, kind and strong at the same time. His lips twist into a strange smile as he turns to face her and cup her shoulder. "You'll have to."

Brittany's breath catches in her throat, and she stares hard into his eyes until a sound pricks against her ears. As if in slow motion, she feels her brow knit; she pushes Henri slightly to the side, to look over his shoulder; and she sees Baker, the dead guy, working his arm up through the dirt.

Like she's been hit with a taser, Brittany's arms jerk and she's shoving Henri aside. Her arm cocks back, stake pointed cruelly outward, and Baker is stumbling to his feet as Brittany surges toward his sternum. When he swings at her, she ducks into a summersault and pops up behind him, and something drives the stake between his shoulder blades, hard and deep.

Baker seizes up, and a weird gasping noise breaks the air before he bursts into flecks of dust. Brittany gasps and jumps backward, trying to process his sudden evaporation while avoiding the ashes settling on the grass and the folds of her jeans.

As the rest of the world shifts back into focus, Brittany finally notices Henri, staring up at her with wide eyes from where he crouches on the ground. His stake lies discarded beside him, and he leaves it there when he staggers upright.

Lingering fear keeps her from speaking, so he speaks for her: "That was amazing."

Brittany looks down at her hands. One still clutches the stake like a lifeline. It feels like they don't belong to her. She's trying to swallow the lump in her throat when she feels Henri's dry hands grasping her shoulders. She forces her eyes to his as he insists, "Brittany, that was amazing!"

He whoops and draws back, pumping his fist in the excitement Brittany only sees when the club wins a race. "That was perfect! Oh my God!"

Brittany forces her voice out to ask, "That's what I'm supposed to do?"

Henri pauses in his celebration and stares at her with a wide, wide smile. "Brittany," he says forcefully, "that's what you were _born _to do."


	17. Drowning I

A note on Spanish: Where used within English sentences or thoughts, it's italicized, but streams of Spanish are left in normal text for clarity. Mistakes on Brittany's Spanish are purposeful.

Another note: Updating early in honor of THE KISS EPISODE. Amirite?

* * *

><p>Beside her, Santana dug her fingers in her hair, dividing it into thick, sweet-smelling wet threads. Brittany smiled, but Santana didn't look; she hummed to herself, soft and light, and couldn't hear Brittany closing her locker.<p>

A noise brought her attention to the door, where it banged against the tile. "Puck, you can't be in here," Brittany said, glancing at Santana—still humming, oblivious behind her—and crossing her arms. The words echoed in the empty locker room like she was speaking underwater; her cheer skirt felt like waves against her legs.

Instead of grinning, Puck wore a small, secretive smile, hopping down the steps and extending his hand.

Brittany looked at it—felt him take her hand between his dry fingers—and said, frowning, "Really, you can't."

"I have something to show you," he said, tugging gently.

As he brought her around the corner, Brittany tried to pull backward, but Puck didn't stop. Santana kept combing through her hair, sighing to herself, and Brittany turned to Puck with a curled lip and made her voice louder against the watery air. "I'm not going to sleep with you, Puck."

"Why?" he asked, winding through rows and rows and rows of red lockers. He glanced at her and his eyes flashed. "It's the closest you'll get to sleeping with her."

Brittany opened her mouth and Puck stopped in front of a locker, dropping her hand to spin the combination. "What are you doing?" she demanded as he opened the door.

"You can't hide out here," he whispered, pulling her in front of the locker. She couldn't see its bright red back. The shadows licked at the metal edges like a living thing. "Well, go in," he pushed, slapping her ass lightly.

She stepped inside, twisting to fit, and a jolt from her ribs forced her eyes closed.

When she opened them, she could smell the damp grass and gray darkness as she peered at Karofsky. She raised her left hand to protect her injured side, but he stood like a statue, unblinking and solemn, and she finally asked, "What are you doing?"

A grin inched across his face like a knife carving hard wood and Brittany felt her mouth dropping open when his shoulder slowly raised. His arm curled back, slow as a first-grade swim instructor, and she could see the bones of his hands strain against his skin where he made a fist. Her left arm tensed to block, but she couldn't move it; it was too far from her side, too far from her body, and she watched with wide, frightened eyes as Karofsky's arm straightened.

She could see the ribbed wrist of his varsity jacket, swinging in the air like a butterfly wing, and then she felt his knuckles against her flesh. Again, she struggled to move her arm, but it blew backward away from the attack. His knuckles bit into her, pressing dimples in the flat muscle and elbowing between the fibers like he was tearing elevator doors apart and grating against each rib in turn like a xylophone from Hell and—

Brittany's mouth was open, wide, and she was staring into his hard, flat eyes and she was trying to scream, to howl, but nothing came out—

And she was back again, watching him stand there like a stone, like a mountain, and his lips peeled back again in that grin. "Don't—" she began, but her voice croaked and slithered away, and she watched him drop his shoulder again in the clearest giveaway she'd ever seen, and she felt her left arm tilting away from her side.

His knuckles felt harder this time, like the blade of a hacksaw, and they dug in like the animal teeth in the Slayer dream from last spring, drilling divots in through skin and flesh and muscle and bone and—

Karofsky was standing still again, but instead of grinning, he looked sad. Brittany felt her left hand cradling her side, where her ribs throbbed like a sick thick heartbeat, and she asked, "What's wrong?"

"You can't save him," he whispered with his mouth closed.

Brittany cocked her head and asked, "Save who?" Karofsky pointed and Brittany realized she was leaning against a gravestone. She turned, carefully, and she almost fell over when she read Henri's name set deep and permanent.

She spun—her bruised ribs stabbed under her hot palm—but Karofsky was gone, and whirlwind was standing in front of her, her eyes black and full, her lips drawn downward.

"What's going on?" asked Brittany, realizing the tickle on her cheeks meant she was crying, and she thought that maybe since Santana looked so sad, too, she knew why.

But Santana shook her head, saying, "You should know by now."

"But I don't," Brittany admitted, helplessly, as Santana took a step forward.

Head shaking again, eyes full of sadness like a bucket of warm water, Santana stood too close to Brittany's face and whispered, "That's the problem." Just when Brittany was sure Santana was going to kiss her—because, God, she was standing so close, and—Santana pressed a palm hard against Brittany's, gripping too tight and pushing so hard into the bruise Brittany was sure her lung was going to pop. Brittany squeezed her eyes shut and heard herself squeak against the pain—because, God, she was pushing so _hard_, and—

Brittany whipped upright in her bed, panting. She winced and clutched her side, still sore and abused even after a night of rest. Brittany glanced at her clock with concern.

Fifteen minutes until her 4:45 alarm went off for early Cheerios practice.

Brittany gritted her teeth and fell slowly back against her pillow.

* * *

><p>It felt like she hadn't slept at all as she puffed through warm-up laps. Santana kept shooting her weird looks—all furrowed brow and narrowed eyes above her flushed face—and Brittany tried to square her shoulders, to keep from twisting the bruise as she ran, but it was still so hard to breathe that her face felt as hot and red as her uniform by the time they came to a stop.<p>

"You okay?" asked tornado with concern. Brittany waved her off and nodded, scowling at the pain in her gut and stretching it slowly with her palms against her back. She still felt Santana's eyes on her; she saw them flick across the field cautiously. "Was patrolling—"

Coach Sylvester blew the whistle and Brittany moved into her position, ignoring Santana's unfinished question. She gulped and raised her arms despite her protesting ribs. Washed her face clear. Focused on hoisting the flyer into the air; on catching her from the flip. On the smell of sweat above the grass and the slow cook of early morning sun against her skin.

As Coach Sylvester whistled again and gestured in a circle at the track, Brittany moved to join the other girls when she heard her name shouted. She squinted to see Beiste jogging out from the gym doors toward them.

"Pierce!" She was shouting, red-faced. She paused by Coach Sylvester, murmuring to her quickly, and rejoined her path to Brittany.

Brittany trotted to meet her, face contorted in confusion. Beiste gripped her upper arm, eyebrows and lips twisted, eyes kind. "What is it?" Brittany asked, a little too quietly.

When Beiste glanced over Brittany's shoulder, Brittany copied her and glimpsed Santana, hesitating where they'd stood at the end of the routine. "It's fine!" called Beiste, waving at the track. "I just need Pierce."

As they shuffled back toward the gym, Brittany waited for Beiste to speak—but got nothing. It wasn't until Beiste closed her office door behind them and pushed Brittany into the chair that Brittany remembered.

Gaze downcast, studying a sweatshirt where it draped over a discarded set of football pads, Brittany almost flinched when Beiste said, "I got your message."

Brittany wet her lips and traced her thumb along one palm. When she said nothing, Beiste asked, gently, "What, so now you don't wanna talk about it?"

Like she was tuned to it—like she was Harry Potter, too close to Voldemort—her bruised ribs started to ache. "Not really," she croaked. Her voice split, like her half-healed lip.

With a heavy sigh, Beiste walked closer and leaned against her desk. Hunched over, with her hands curled around the worn edge. "C'mon, Brittany. You wanted to talk last night."

"There's nothing to say," Brittany said, cold and heavy like a stone dropped on concrete. Beiste waited—her stare too strong—and Brittany wiped her eyes. They started to sting. "I messed up," she spat, feeling grim satisfaction when her injury complained.

She could feel Beiste's eyes. So tender and concerned. Brittany kept her eyes on the floor.

Quietly, Beiste coaxed, "Are you okay?" After a pause, she cautiously added, "You looked a little sore out there, this morning."

Brittany felt her face twitch—for a second—into a scowl. She pulled it back into blankness. "I didn't heal," she said, so deep and quiet she hardly recognized the words as her own.

She let the quiet sink in between them. Maybe it would solidify. Harden. Maybe Beiste wouldn't look through and see her, with her cut lip and haunted eyes and the big purple lake across her stomach. Wouldn't see her at all.

"Brittany, what happened?"

"I don't think I can do this," she blurted, the sentence wet in the middle where it passed the tears in her throat. "I don't think I'm good enough."

More quiet. Brittany could imagine Beiste, fingers twitching against the desk, face rippling in panicked thought. She didn't need to look.

"I need to get to class," Brittany muttered before Beiste could get a sentence together. She brushed past and slipped out into the hallway.

She could hear the janitor's floor cleaner running around the corner. She cracked her neck and took a deep breath of the quiet 6:00 air. Her lungs pressed into the bruise like a hot air balloon. Brittany took the long way to the locker room—the sweat stuck to her like a film, like everything in the world was too close to her skin—and wondered, as she walked, whether Santana had ever gotten hurt like this.

Another deep breath pressed her bones and muscles painfully together, and Brittany thought, bitterly, that no other Slayer—not Santana and not the ones from her old dreams—could ever be stupid enough to get slugged by a half-zombie high schooler.

That honor was probably hers alone.

* * *

><p>"Here," Quinn said, pointing to her foot. "This looks wrong to me."<p>

Brittany sucked her teeth and tapped her toe against Quinn's heel. "Turn out a little. Like that." She nodded when Quinn obeyed. "You're fine."

An annoyed sigh. "Good." Quinn looked at the door and at the clock. "He better not be late," she muttered.

With a shrug, Brittany pointed out, "He's got five whole minutes before we said we'd be here. And Santana's not here yet anyway."

Quinn ignored her and moved aside, inspecting the choir room with harsh eyes and crossed arms. When she didn't speak, Brittany glanced at the clock—four minutes and fifty seconds—and bit her lips nervously. "Hey Quinn?"

"What, Brittany?"

She said it like she'd just carried a box up a flight of stairs for the third time. She spun, eyebrow arched expectantly, and Brittany screwed up her courage with a slow breath. She could feel it in her bruise; it felt strangely reassuring, to focus on that. "How'd you get Santana to agree?"

Quinn blinked in open surprise, like that was honestly the last of five thousand things she'd expected Brittany to ask. "What do you mean?" she asked, searching Brittany's face like she was trying to buy time to process the question.

"Yesterday," explained Brittany with a one-shouldered shrug, "you said you were gonna tell somebody something. And then she agreed. To do this."

Quinn breathed in and out her nose so forcefully Brittany could hear the air whistling. "I doubt she'd appreciate me telling you," Quinn answered drily.

With a careful, distant glance away from Quinn's eyes and around the room, Brittany said, "That's okay." She locked her hands behind her back and looked casually at the clock. "I figured you two just hooked up or something."

Quinn spluttered so loud Brittany almost regretted looking away. She neatly tucked her smile into a concerned frown and asked, "Wait—you didn't?" as innocently as she could.

"No," Quinn gasped, "absolutely, definitely, totally, _completely _no."

It was hard to see under the shock, but Quinn looked mostly rattled and a little repulsed. Brittany brought her hands up in front of her and picked absently at her nail. "Okay," she said, shrugging again.

Still looking a little queasy, Quinn repeated, "We didn't. It's—that's not—" Brittany glanced up and Quinn eyed Brittany's hands. Quinn shook her head. "We didn't… _hook up_. Nothing like that." Another pause. "It's sort of a family secret she doesn't want spilled."

Brittany watched Quinn's face curiously, but before she could ask, Mr. Schuester swept into the room, all crinkly hair and sweater vest. "Okay! You are—" He looked up from his clipboard in surprise, taking in their red Cheerios uniforms and double-checking the signup sheet. "Okay then."

As he began to say more, Santana swept into the room, already scowling at the idea of wasting a free period on a glee audition. "_Vamos_," she said with a snap of her fingers, raising an eyebrow at Brittany and Quinn. "Let's do this thing."

At the end, while Quinn asked Schuester about the rehearsal schedule with a smug grin, Santana touched Brittany's shoulder and trapped her with concerned dark eyes. "Britt-Britt, what's going on with you? You've been, like, avoiding me all day."

Brittany's eyes dropped naturally down Santana's body; she pushed them all the way to the floor, to cover up. "Not—avoiding you."

Not good enough. A gentle squeeze on her shoulder brought her gaze back to Santana's. Seeing her this soft made Brittany relax a little. "Seriously," Santana pushed. She ducked her head, staring into Brittany's eyes like she could see the answer there. She looked so deep Brittany could feel her secrets turning over like stones. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Brittany's throat was dry when she swallowed. "I'm okay." She forced a little smile. "Really."

Santana stood straighter, and the sway of her ponytail drew Brittany's attention. She thought back to that first night—to Santana, a black shadow, cutting the air like a whip with soft edges—to Santana, preaching _dust to dust_ with a swing of a stake and a smirk—

Her ribs ached. She lightly pushed Santana's hand off her shoulder. "I've gotta get to class," she said.

Santana stayed in her path, staring like Brittany was a poem waiting to be read aloud. "Homework party after school?" she asked, grinning. Tentatively.

Brittany bit her lips and nodded. "Okay," she said, and brushed past the hurricane and into the hall.

* * *

><p>"What was that about?" asked Puck when he materialized beside Brittany's locker.<p>

She startled, frowning in annoyance when she recognized his half-lidded eyes and easy smirk. "What was what about?"

His face fell slightly—but only slightly. He gestured toward the choir room door with the hand holding a textbook. "You, Fabray, and Lopez, gettin' your giddy on."

Brittany glanced at him blankly and shoved her history book into her locker. His lip twisted. "Why were you guys in the choir room?" he clarified impatiently.

With a shrug, Brittany turned her attention to her books. "Why do you care?"

"Because," he scoffed, puffing his chest out, "if three ladies are doin' during-school doings in there on a regular basis, the Puckster wants _in_."

"I'm not going to sleep with you, Puck," Brittany snapped. As her notebook banged the locker's metal back, she froze for a second, recognizing the words from her dream.

Puck only glanced carelessly down the hallway as time slipped back to normal speed. "I know," he said, unbothered.

Brittany blinked. "You… you know?" she asked, sure she'd misheard.

He eyed her—like he wasn't sure she could handle the explanation—but he just shrugged. "I mean, Santana told me she'd totally cut my dick off if I went after you," he said.

The books in Brittany's hand almost fell to the floor. She shoved them nervously into her backpack. "She did?"

He pulled a face and shrugged again, like Santana's motives were as mysterious to him as multivariate calculus. "Hey," he said, counting on his fingers, "there's three people I don't fuck with: Chuck Norris, my rabbi, and Santana Lopez." When she stared at him as he began to back away, he raised his eyebrows and pointed at her. "Don't look at me like that. My rabbi's a black belt in Karate _and_ judo."

* * *

><p>Brittany dragged her pen along the top of the worksheet. "I really don't get this," she mumbled, watching ink ooze into the corner of the page.<p>

"Let me help," Santana offered gamely, crawling on her elbows up to where Brittany sat and leaning her chin on Brittany's pretzel legs. Her skin felt like fire on Brittany's bare thigh. "Still doing Spanish?" mumbled Santana. Her jaw bumped against Brittany and made her head bob up and down.

Swallowing hard, Brittany tucked her left arm behind her to keep from touching that soft, dark hair. "Yeah. Um. Can you help?"

Tornado chuckled. Her breath tickled. "_Claro que sí_," she said, smooth and soft like freshly washed sheets. She propped herself up on her arms—hovering higher, where her necklace scraped cool lines on the skin her chin had warmed—and craned her neck to read the second sentence, under Brittany's first carefully written answer.

"Don't just tell me the answer," Brittany said, and she must have surprised Santana as much as she surprised herself because whirlwind turned to look up at her as soon as she said it.

Those eyes darted from Brittany's eyes to her lips. Then Santana frowned, and Brittany remembered the cut that still lingered, healing slowly.

Stumbling over her words—she could feel how close Santana was, feel the heat coming out of her skin, see that deep swirling something in those eyes—Brittany mumbled, "I remember how to say _favorite_, but I don't really have a favorite subject, and anyway I wouldn't know how to say it if I did."

Brittany sort of expected curved brows and a downturned mouth: pity, or condescension, maybe. But Santana looked at her thoughtfully before turning back to the page. She perked up, dropping her left hand flat on Brittany's knee, and asked, "What if you just said that?"

Brittany watched Santana's eyes skitter across the prompt again. "What do you mean?"

"Like, say you don't have a favorite subject, but you really like cheerleading," Santana suggested. When she looked back up—like she wanted to see what Brittany thought, like she wanted to make sure it was okay, like she wanted to know if her idea was any good—Brittany had to gulp hard, twice, to swallow how bad she wanted to kiss her.

She found her voice again, with some effort, and asked in a rough whisper, "How do you say that?"

Santana licked her lips and tapped her thumb against Brittany's knee. "Well, you know _favorite_, right?" she coaxed.

"Right." Brittany wondered if the heartbeat at her knee was hers or Santana's. "_Favorito_."

A smile turned up at her. "Yeah, but you say it with an _ah _sound, like at the dentist."

She tried again. "_Favorito_?"

"Better." Santana looked at her lips again and Brittany wondered if her cheeks looked as hot as they felt. "And you know 'I don't have' and _class_, right?" Brittany nodded, afraid to open her mouth when Santana kept glancing at it, and Santana finished, "And you say _porrista _for _cheerleader_."

Brittany realized the pen had slipped from between her fingers. Santana was looking at her expectantly, so she frowned and carefully strung the pieces together. "So… _no… no tengo una clase favorito, pero…_" She frowned harder, more helplessly, but Santana dipped her head forward in the slightest little nod and gave her a half-smile and Brittany felt her heart beating fast enough to help her think harder. "_Pero soy una porrista, y…_ How do I say, 'It makes me happy'?"

"_Me hace feliz_."

They were both speaking so quietly. Brittany's eyes felt stuck to Santana's lips, where they pressed around the words like a thick, warm blanket.

But wetter.

"_Y me hace feliz_," Brittany parroted, barely above a breath. She looked up from Santana's mouth, but it took a second for Santana to do the same. To meet her eyes. Brittany found herself holding her breath for a long, long moment; she felt her pulse and Santana's hand on her knee and nothing else. "_Me haces feliz_, Santana," she whispered, finally, into the silence as soft as new snow.

"Yeah." It broke in the middle, a crackle in Santana's throat. Her mouth twitched, but Brittany couldn't look away from the eyes digging into her, wide and wet and glassy like that night under the stars. "That was perfect," Santana said, and Brittany wasn't sure what she was talking about.

She felt Santana's palm slip off her leg—noticed the tug of Santana's shoulder muscles shifting beneath her Cheerios top—and when her gaze dipped back down to Santana's lips, dark and wide, she saw Santana's necklace flicker in the lighting and—

Brittany's eyes dropped shut, light as butterfly wings. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but Santana's mouth against hers—wet and gentle and coyly, tentatively, annoyingly still—

Carefully, so carefully, like sneaking up on a deer, Brittany tilted her head and pressed back. Santana adjusted—Brittany felt her whole torso clench when Santana braced her hand flat against the bedspread between Brittany's pretzel legs, shifting two pleats aside so they slipped against Brittany's skin—and her lips moved, fitting against Brittany's like—like—

And Brittany kept expecting her to stop, to draw away, but no. Whirlwind moved up toward her, against her, and Brittany's body hummed with the nearness of Santana's, as near as it'd been the night after the party, when Brittany awoke too happy and too close. Carefully, so carefully, Brittany opened her mouth a little, fitting it tighter against Santana's. Santana adjusted again to sit up more properly and touched Brittany's waist, leaning a little to support her weight.

Pain. Brittany gasped, her instinctive flinch breaking the kiss, and Santana pulled back like she'd been burned—or like she'd accidentally set Brittany on fire. Brittany couldn't keep her hand from covering her ribs, where Santana's palm had just rested, and guilt and hurt swept over her as she looked up and saw them painted perfectly on Santana's face.

"I'm sorry," they both said at once, Brittany forcefully and Santana almost—shamefully. All hoarse whisper. "No, I am," Brittany insisted, watching those eyes dance all around her room. "I didn't mean to—it wasn't your fault, I just—"

Santana was considering her, carefully, and right when Brittany recognized—too late—the brightening, suspicious recognition, Santana asked, "When did you get hurt?"

The answer clogged Brittany's throat like an ice cube, all cold, hard edges. As she struggled to gulp air around it, to voice it, Santana jerked out of her frozen pose and grabbed the hem of Brittany's cheer top, dragging it up to the band of Brittany's sports bra.

Hurricane sucked in a breath like a gasp, and Brittany followed her eyes to the green-purple stain. Brittany gripped the fabric bunched under her arms and tugged downward, but Santana held firm with one hand and swatted Brittany's away with the other. Her eyes were almost black when they beat into Brittany's, sharp and—something like concerned.

As her lip twitched, baring one pointed canine, Brittany recognized the look from her mother's parent-teacher conference with Mrs. Herrick in Indianapolis.

Protective.

"Britt, this looks bad," Santana was saying with her eyebrows pushed together. She looked back down at the bruise and traced it with her fingertips, so lightly Brittany could barely feel it. "Did this happen today?"

Brittany could see Santana thinking—calculating how long it would take to heal—and shook her head. Shame shoved her gaze toward the far corner of her room. "Last night," she said, pushing Santana's hand away from her stomach.

"Last night?"

A glance told Brittany everything Santana was trying to ask: _what happened_ and _how bad_ and _how many_ and _why the fuck didn't you call?_

She couldn't answer any of them. As she shrugged and licked her lips, stitching together something vague to say, a high-pitched voice in Santana's backpack chirped, "Bitch alert! Do not pick up! There is a bitch on the other end of this phone!"

Santana rolled her eyes and crawled backward off the bed toward her bag. "Puck changed my ringtone," she began, but when she fished the phone out she froze. She glanced uneasily at Brittany—uncoiling her legs and tugging her shirt back over the bruise—and answered. "Mami, ¿_qué pasa_?"

When those eyes flicked back to Brittany, Brittany made a show of picking her pen back up and slowly scrawling her new answer across the second line. Santana turned her back toward Brittany and said, hushed, "No puedo ahora."

Brittany stilled her pen to listen. She'd just been thinking about Spanish; with effort, she could pick apart Santana's long phrases into words.

Tornado glanced over her shoulder and ran her free hand through her hair, smoothing loose strands back toward the ponytail. "Porque estoy en la casa de Brittany," she murmured. "Hacemos la tarea. ¿Por qué no pueda Tía Joaquina?"

Brittany swallowed; in Spanish, Santana's words sounded the way she looked in the shadows of the graveyard, like the panther of Brittany's dreams, all black, fluid silk with bared teeth.

"Sí, porque me incomodará," Santana snapped, and Brittany's fingers jotted the word on the margin of her worksheet. She blinked at it—surprised—as Santana continued, rising from uncertain, wavering whisper to that angry rollercoaster she'd unleashed at the boys in the hallway. "¡No soy tu chófer, Mami! Mi vida es importante tamb—"

Noise blared from the phone's speaker, and Santana jerked it away from her ear with a guilty glance at Brittany. She eased the phone back against her face and turned, halfway, as she ended the conversation with quiet resignation: "Sí. Ahora vengo."

As she ended the call and cradled the phone in her hands and stepped cautiously—apologetically—toward the bed, Brittany bit her lip. "You have to go?"

"Yes." Brittany could see Santana's cheeks, slightly darker with the heat of a blush. "I'm sorry," she began, gesturing vaguely with her phone, "it's not you, I just have to—"

"I know," Brittany cut off gently. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "It's okay," she added, like a promise.

Santana stared at her for the longest second, like Brittany'd just explained the whole universe in four words, and just when Brittany realized she was starting to turn red again, Santana looked down at her backpack. "I'll pick you up for school tomorrow?" she asked, hopefully, instead of saying it like a given.

"Yes, please," Brittany said quietly, sucking her lips into her mouth.

Santana hefted her backpack onto one shoulder and held her hand out when Brittany made to get up. "It's okay," she said with a strange half-smile. "I think I remember where the door is."

Just before she stepped into the hallway, though, she looked Brittany in the eye—glanced pointedly at her stomach—and said, "See you tomorrow."


	18. Drowning II

Another early update. (If you're wondering, I usually update every Thursday.) I'm curious what you guys think about Britt's journey so far: where she's been and where she's going. Drop a review and let me know what you've gotten from this so far. :)

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, once Brittany had translated <em>incomodará<em> and spent more time staring at it than at the third question, her phone buzzed on her nightstand. From Santana: _btw, 'c u tmrw' meant no patrol for u tonight_.

Brittany pressed Reply, but her thumbs hesitated over the keys. She felt queasy. Like her churning stomach was shoving into her bruise, over and over. Her chest ached, and she could still feel—with icy clarity—the ridges of dream-Karofsky's knuckles, digging into her bones, and she dreaded marching into the graveyard and finding her body frozen, petrified by the chill of her failures, turned into—

But how could she not try?

She thought of Santana, silky in the night, weaving through it like the breeze and ending with a bite. How Beiste's training weapons fit so perfectly in her hands. The smirk she wore when her fists and feet connected, like she was sinking into an armchair after a long day. Like she fit there perfectly.

And the way she'd looked at Brittany in the dream, disappointed and pitying, shaking her head and saying, whispering, sighing—_You should know by now_.

How could she not even try?

In the end, Brittany's phone dimmed, then locked; she set it aside, her empty draft unsent.

* * *

><p>Hurricane nearly staked her.<p>

"Jesus fucking _fuck_, Britt!" she hissed, weapon shaking in her raised left hand. It drifted downward while her other hand stiffly uncurled from Brittany's collar. "I almost fucking gutted you," Santana added, voice shivering as bad as her body.

Brittany smiled with half her mouth, shrugging awkwardly. "Sorry."

As the word dropped off her lips, Santana's eyes narrowed and her ears inched back, tugging the skin at her temples into strained smoothness. "Wait," she said, voice rising quickly, "you're not supposed to be here! The fuck are you doing here?"

Brittany rocked onto her back foot, half-raising her hands toward a gesture of surrender. "I couldn't just—" she began, glad when Santana cut off her unformed thoughts.

"No, Britt," she was insisting, stepping forward and sticking her finger in Brittany's face. "You're fucking injured! The fuck are you doing out patrolling?"

Uneasily, Brittany protested, "It's not that bad, honest."

"Fuck no. I saw it, Brittany."

"It hardly hurts," she tried.

Santana just glared. "Go home. There's no reason to risk getting hurt worse—not when I'm here to—"

"Look out!" Brittany yelped, tugging Santana to the side by her elbow as a badly dressed vampire fell on his face where they'd stood.

Brittany grabbed at Santana's stake, but tornado was out of reach, swinging her black boot into the vampire's side and rolling him away. "Stay back," she bit off at Brittany, sweeping her aside with her right arm as she chased the vamp past a few headstones.

She tackled him into one, doubling him over at the waist, and Brittany skidded around and cocked her fist to hit him in the face when Santana swatted her away. "Just stay—"

The vamp jerked backward, smacking Santana's forehead with his skull with a sickening _snak_, and Santana stumbled backward, cussing colorfully in English and Spanish. The vamp looked eagerly at Brittany and lunged at her with the sloppy eagerness of Brittany's little sister after a bowl of candy.

Brittany stepped aside, raising one knee instinctively into his gut. Before she could follow up, Santana grabbed the back of Tooth's shirt and yanked him gracefully back onto the stake nestled in her other hand.

As he disintegrated, Santana tucked the stake into her pocket and brushed the vamp dust off her palms. "Brittany, you should've stayed home," she said, and it sounded strange and strangled. Brittany moved hesitantly toward her, trying to catch her expression on her downturned face, and Santana turned away to scan the horizon. "You're hurt. You should go home."

"San, what's wrong?" asked Brittany, fingers twisting nervously in front of her.

When Santana glanced up at her, face scrunched and bottom lip white under her teeth, Brittany's stomach rolled painfully against her tender ribs. Her breath hitched as Santana murmured, still quiet and loud all at once, "Just go home, okay? Put some ice on—it."

Brittany reached out, still tentative, and Santana curled away with a cautious glance.

"Go home. Do your Spanish homework."

Another careful look at that face—the bit lip and the way Santana hugged herself absently—and Brittany swallowed her answers.

"Okay."

* * *

><p>In the weak morning sunlight, keeping her eyes away from Santana's hand on her backpack strap, Brittany spotted Karofsky across the parking lot and went rigid.<p>

"Britt, what's wrong?" asked Santana—the first words she'd said since the graveyard.

Brittany barely heard her. Swallowed against the ache blooming in her belly. Gripped the pleats of her skirt.

Whip-quick, Santana followed Brittany's sightline and snapped her eyes back to Brittany's face. Searching it purposefully. "Was he the one that hit you?" she growled.

Startled, Brittany turned and blinked at her. "Um—" she began.

"I'll fucking kill him," Santana growled again, fists curled and teeth bared.

"No—" Brittany caught Santana's arm, pulling gently toward the building. At Santana's fierce glance, Brittany pouted just a little and tugged once more. "Let's just go inside. Please?"

Tornado hedged, bottom lip snagged between her teeth, and she stared hard at Karofsky. The way she stared at the training room punching bag when she wanted her fists inside it. Crushing the stuffing like a heart.

"Please?"

Another moment's pause. The gentle dig of Brittany's fingernails in Santana's elbow.

Santana sighed and relented. Her muscles unknotted under Brittany's hand.

"Okay. Let's go."

* * *

><p>It wasn't until the end of English class that Brittany remembered the worksheet, half-finished in her folder. Her heart thumped against her chest—so hard it made her ribs hurt, all over again, worse than how they'd throbbed when she'd bumped her textbook against them earlier—but it was too late, too late, when she glimpsed the clock and counted two minutes until class ended.<p>

In the hallway, walking in a jerky rush to face the music and Mr. Schuester, Brittany realized too late that she'd forgotten to write down the next assignment. Dread settled behind her sore bruise, hard and heavy by the time she skidded into the Spanish room across the school.

"Brittany," said Mr. Schuester with a smile, one hand perched light like a hummingbird atop a stack of finished worksheets.

Brittany could taste her heart in her throat. Thick and stale. Under the hot eyes of her classmates, Brittany awkwardly tilted her bag forward along one shoulder like a purse and unzipped it. It took five seconds too long to fish for the paper among her folders; the bell rang and Brittany could feel how bright and red her ears burned and she could feel the sting of Mr. Schuester's expectant eyes.

She dropped the page—clearly half blank—next to his hand and watched him frown in slow motion, gazing across the empty lines and back up to Brittany's face.

Her skin matched her Cheerios uniform. She could feel it. The way it crawled.

She skittered to the back of her class, creeping back up the third row to sink into her chair, and buried her blush and her frustration in her Spanish notebook. Mr. Schuester clapped his hands, sighing deeply the way he did when he wished he didn't have to start yet, and Brittany forced every word from his mouth onto her notebook page to make up for her unfinished work.

At the end of class, her insides felt heavy and cold again, and she wasn't surprised when Mr. Schuester caught her eye and raised one eyebrow. She kept her seat while the class filed out; Mr. Schuester knew she had a free period, and anyway, escaping with the crowd would hardly have helped.

"Brittany," he said like a sigh when she stopped in front of her desk, staring hard at the pile of papers. "Why didn't you do the assignment?"

None of the answers she had would work. She just shrugged. "I tried."

A pause. She could almost hear him frowning. "But you started," he said, like he was surprised.

Brittany's lip curled and she tasted bile at the back of her tongue.

"I said I tried," she repeated, and her insistence just sounded sickly to her ears.

Mr. Schuester sighed again. Brittany watched his fingertips brush across the pages. "It's a little early in the year to be falling behind," he said, so ominously Brittany's eyes widened and jumped up to meet his.

"Falling behind?" she asked, barely able to put her voice behind it, the question like a bad dream on her lips, barely a breath, barely real.

His face softened; hers must have shown her fear, naked and strong. "You have a free period, right?" he asked, so gently Brittany's throat tightened and her bruise ached.

Brittany just nodded, scared to look away from his expression, even when it wore the same pity she'd been seeing for years. Since forever.

"Just do it now, and bring it in tomorrow," he said, offering a half-smile like he was doing her a favor.

She wanted so badly to tell him that she could've done it. That she could still do it. Or just to stop smiling at her like that.

Instead, she swallowed and nodded. She took the worksheet back and left the room, biting back the prickle of tears at the edges of her eyes.

* * *

><p>Through the lump in her throat, Brittany still smiled at the sticky notes covering the sign on the janitor's closet with the new title: HOLLY HOLLIDAY. Her hand was already settling on the doorknob, ready to make some passing joke about Holly finally getting long-term sub digs, when she heard the voices muffled inside.<p>

With a cautious glance down the empty hall, Brittany pressed her ear to the wood and let her eyes drift shut.

"This shit is ridiculous, and you know it."

Brittany blinked in surprise. Santana's voice, harsh and hot.

"Calm down, sweet cheeks, I—"

"You what? Far as I can see, you haven't done shit!"

A flutter and a thump. Books, maybe. Papers.

"Santana." Firmer. "You need to calm down."

Santana again, low and warning, like the growl in the parking lot: "Don't fucking tell me to calm down, Polly Pocket."

A beat. Brittany's fingers twitched against the metal of the knob.

"What's this really about, honey?"

Santana waited too long to reply. Brittany felt her throat clogging with—something, right when Santana bit off, "It's about you not doing your goddamn job. Figure out what's going on."

Holly paused again, and then she spoke in that sing-song pattern, like an elementary school teacher. "Did something happen on patrol?"

Nothing. Brittany could imagine Santana swallowing; those dark eyes, darting away to the room's corners, like a startled spider or a nervous child.

"What happened?"

Brittany could see it so clearly: Holly, speaking too gently, and Santana snapping under the weight of a caring hand on her shoulder.

She was right; Santana hissed, "Don't touch me," like she'd been stung. After another pause—so tense Brittany could sense it, tingling through the handle against her palm—she muttered, "One caught Britt off guard."

A shoe scuffed the ground. Brittany guessed it was probably Holly, watching Santana carefully.

"Just—fucking find something, will you?" asked Santana, before Holly replied. "You're taking forever. Jesus."

Another shoe sound—Brittany's hand leapt from the knob and she almost pulled away—but Holly stopped it, asking quietly, "Santana, are you sure you don't want to talk?"

Again, Santana waited one extra second. "About what?"

More quiet.

"You know what."

Quiet.

"No."

Brittany reeled back from the door, flattening against the wall by the column of hinges as the door swung open. Without glancing at her, Santana cut to the left, toward the library.

Brittany watched Santana's ponytail swinging with her hips as she walked and realized she'd been biting her tongue too hard. She swallowed the beads of blood and peeled away from the wall and the faded inspirational poster stuck to her Cheerios uniform.

Her tongue clicked against her teeth; she watched Santana turn a corner before she headed away from Santana and Holly, toward the locker rooms and Beiste's office.

* * *

><p>As Brittany passed the library, she caught a flash of red in the edge of her vision and glanced up right as Azimio barreled into her injured side. Strangely, as she doubled over and squinted up at his shadow in the fluorescent lights, he didn't laugh at her grimace or hiss of pain.<p>

Brittany gritted her teeth and forced her body upright under his flat stare. His lip finally curled into a small, cruel smile as he strutted around the corner and away. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her thumb against her rib. It ached like the dread settled in her gut.

She wondered why it hadn't healed.

* * *

><p>"Hey, what's shakin', bacon?" asked Beiste with a gentle smile. It faded when she saw the yellowed pallor of Brittany's cheeks; she rose and touched Brittany's cheek. Her forehead. "What's wrong?"<p>

The effort of swallowing pushed Brittany's eyelids closed again. "Coach, why'm I not healing?" she asked. The dry gravel in her throat and voice made her wince.

Beiste looked at her sadly and drew her hand back, glancing quickly over Brittany's body and pausing where Brittany's hand still clutched at her side in spasms. "Can you show me?" She caught Brittany's eye and offered her softest expression of concern.

Brittany's stomach turned like she'd eaten bad shrimp.

Wordlessly, she chomped the inside of her cheek and curled the hem of her Cheerios top up far enough to reveal the barely-shrunken bruise.

"Shit," breathed Beiste, like it'd fallen out of her mouth too quickly to catch. She touched her own stomach, like she could feel Brittany's pain. Like seeing the mark was as bad as getting one.

"It's been days," Brittany gulped, thinking about Azimio's stare. Like he'd known where to aim.

Beiste staggered back toward her desk. Worried. "How long does it usually take, to… for something like that to heal?" She directed her wet eyes at the papers on her desk.

Like Brittany couldn't sense her panic. Thick in the air, like the stench of blood.

The thought curled Brittany's lip derisively, despite Beiste's earnest searching in her notebook for an answer that wasn't there.

"Not this long," Brittany said, voice cracking in the middle like chalk breaking on asphalt.

Beiste stared at her desk—at the words beneath her fingers—and finally managed, "I'll ask Holly to look." When she turned back to Brittany, finally, she looked as lost as Brittany felt.

"You don't know?"

A beat.

"I don't know."

* * *

><p>In the hallway, Brittany remembered the unfinished assignment, burning in her backpack. She went to the library, but Santana wasn't there; she'd just stepped to the end of the last aisle when the bell rang. Reluctantly, she followed her groaning peers as they gathered their belongings and drifted to their next classes.<p>

It wasn't until later, in the first Glee meeting, that they reconnected. "Hi," Brittany tried, smiling tentatively and sinking into the chair beside Santana.

"Wanna take bets on how much this'll suck?" Santana muttered, arms and ankles crossed, eyes seeping into the room like black ink on white paper.

The normalcy dampened the feeling in Brittany's belly. "I think more than a vacuum cleaner, probably," Brittany replied, leaning toward Santana's ear and keeping her voice low.

Santana snorted appreciatively. Without looking, she added, "But probably less than Monica Lewinsky, huh?" with the hint of a smile.

Brittany snickered and glanced at the other chairs. She only recognized a few people. The loud chick from the Bronze, babbling loudly at the bored pianist. Puck's morning dumpster victim, in a light gray blazer. Quinn, glaring at Loudmouth's back and arm looped through Finn's. Finn, who waved awkwardly when Brittany made eye contact.

She flickered a smile at him and turned back to Santana. "Hey," she started, drawing those dark eyes to her face for a moment. "Do you think you could help me with Spanish tonight? I didn't finish it…"

"Sure," Santana said, blinking and shrugging. "After—"

"Sorry I'm late," announced Mr. Schuester as he swept into the room. He shooed Troll from the piano and clapped his hands, smiling halfheartedly at Quinn and Santana and Brittany in turn. "As you all probably noticed, we have some new faces among us today. Please welcome—"

"I just want to say welcome to the New Directions," gushed Short Stuff, who hadn't strayed more than two yards from the piano. She stepped forward, a little in front of Mr. Schuester, and laced her fingers under her too-wide grin.

Santana sniggered at the way Rachel slurred _New Directions_.

Rachel went on: "I know I speak for all of us when I say we're very excited to have you with us. I'm sure your cultivated skills of synchronization will make the three of you ideal backup dancers, in addition to bringing our troupe three members closer to a qualifying total of twelve!"

Quinn and Santana sneered; Brittany hooked her ankles around the chair legs.

Mr. Schuester cleared his throat. "Thank you, Rachel," he interjected, guiding her pointedly toward the chairs. Rachel beamed at Finn—who, foolishly, offered her a dopey smile and paid for it with a slap on the arm from Quinn—and took her seat directly behind Frankentall.

"Anyway"—Mr. Schuester spun dramatically on his heel and seized a red Expo marker from its tray—"I'm sure you're all wondering what this week's assignment is!"

Santana clicked her tongue. "Oh hell no," she drawled, her right arm pivoting at the elbow and fingers curling, like she could draw the suggestion out of Mr. Schuester's mind and squish it like a gnat. The black girl—some kind of car name, like Saab or something—raised an eyebrow from the other end of the row.

"Q, you did _not_ tell me there were gonna be assignments," Santana was snapping, ignoring Mr. Schuester's shock and staring straight at Quinn.

Quinn glared back, arm still coiled through Finn's. "Quiet, Santana. It's fine." Quinn swiveled her head to face Mr. Schuester, so level and exact it made her look like an animatronic. "What's the assignment, Mr. Schuester?" she asked, too sweetly.

As Santana sank deeper into the plastic chair, scowling and folding her arms, Mr. Schuester hesitantly turned back to the board. "As I was saying," he stuttered, building back his gusto like a little kid riding a bike for the second time, "this week, we'll be doing ballads."

He was writing the word on the board in red ink that waned on upstrokes as Rachel announced, "How excellent! I look forward to the opportunity to demonstrate for the rest of you a beautiful oral tradition, passed down through generations and perfected by only the most accomplished musical artists."

"Let me guess," drawled Lexus without amusement. "You mean you."

Brittany saw Santana's eyes flick over. Assessing.

"Indeed," Rachel agreed cautiously, "as I am the only one here with formal training, it is only fitting that I—"

"Thank you, Rachel," repeated Mr. Schuester with emphasis, capping the marker with a _snap_. "However, this assignment applies to everyone—not just you." He used the marker to point around the room, snaking across the rows like connect-the-dots. "So everybody will pick a partner and choose a ballad."

Rachel immediately aimed glowing bedroom eyes at Finn. Like nobody would notice. Or maybe she just didn't care.

Brittany shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Santana. Santana was staring at the clock. Mr. Schuester was fiddling with sheet music on the piano, and Brittany wet her lips as her hand floated tentatively off her thigh and toward Santana's. She opened her mouth to say—something, maybe about partnering up.

"Bitch alert!" screeched that voice, sneaking out of Santana's backpack like a gremlin in that creepy movie Brittany's dad had made her watch. The looks on the Glee kids' faces—ranging from shock to surprise to hilariously dramatic horror—made Brittany smile as Santana dug into her bag without so much as a bored glance at the rest of the room.

When her face fell and she jerked out of the chair, Brittany's smile drained like cold water after a bath.

Dumpster boy was saying something—it was his mouth moving, despite the strangely high voice Brittany heard—but Brittany was out of her chair, following Santana with stilted steps into the hallway.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Brittany stilled, realizing Santana may not want her listening.

It was too late, but Santana wasn't looking at her; she faced away, toward the lockers across the hall, shoulders and back muscles bunched under the polyester creases. "How bad?" she was asking, hushed into the phone's microphone.

Brittany gulped, wondering if she should say something, if she should touch Santana's shoulder and try to help or maybe just retreat, sneak back into the choir room before Santana heard, or maybe—

She teetered there, on her heels, and Santana ran a hand through her hair. She shifted from foot to foot. "Jesus. Again?" she asked, like she couldn't believe it and yet didn't doubt it.

Brittany's fingers fisted her Cheerios skirt again.

"No, I'm just… I'm at a school thing, but I can…"

Santana hooked her hand on her hip, sighing the way Brittany's father sighed at the news. "Yeah, I can come. Thanks, Rafi… really."

The phone clicked off and Santana spun. Her downcast eyes caught Brittany's white sneakers first. Then bolted up to Brittany's startled expression. Santana looked surprised, too—then embarrassed. "I have to…" She gestured vaguely with her phone.

"Go?" offered Brittany, helpfully and a little sadly.

She could see Santana's throat shiver. "Yeah. But—listen, don't patrol tonight, okay?" she said, the same way she'd sounded when she asked Quinn for just one cigarette. The way that sounded like _please_.

And as Santana's eyes darted between Brittany's and then back over her shoulder, at the choir room door, Brittany wasn't sure how to deny her. "Whatever you need," she answered with a shrug. Like there was only one thing she could say.


	19. Drowning III

One day early again. Just getting excited as the plot develops. Like always, thanks a million for reading, and reviews especially! I hope all your questions will be answered more by the story than by my comments.

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><p>In the parking lot, Brittany opened her mouth to ask Quinn for a ride home when she caught the glaze in Quinn's eye. Finn's arm tensed over Quinn's shoulder as he said something about going back to his house to study—too busy watching Rachel stare at him from the pick-up circle to notice Brittany hovering—and Quinn dropped a long look toward Puck by the gym entrance, the way she might drop coins on the floor in the drugstore.<p>

Just as Quinn's eyes slid to hers, Brittany took a step back and simpered. "Maybe we can work on the assignment together," she offered with a wave goodbye.

Quinn nodded absently, like Brittany was more of an afterthought than anything else, and let Finn guide her toward his truck.

Brittany watched the other kids crossing slowly to their cars or their parents' cars, trying to decide if she should call for a ride or maybe just walk. Or maybe run. Blow off steam.

"Brittany."

She almost jumped out of her skin. One startled spasm and she forced her body to relax, looking sidelong at Dumpster. "Um. Yes?"

He threaded his thin fingers through his keys. They jingled as he fiddled with them. "You're friends with Santana Lopez," he said slowly, like he was checking facts for a paper.

"Yeah." Brittany blinked; it felt like the first time she watched Jeopardy!, when she knew most of the answers, but couldn't figure out how they connected.

He searched her face, the way Quinn and Santana and everybody else seemed to. Brittany took in his soft-looking hair and the button-up shirt he was sweating through under the arms. "Kurt," he captioned, raising his pointer finger to his chest.

"Kurt," she repeated, curling her lips into a confused, encouraging smile. The smile faded as her brow creased: "Why are you asking about Santana?" she asked. Trying not to sound suspicious.

Kurt looked away, scanning the emptying parking lot, and licked his lips. Something about his careful expression made Brittany's stomach ache. Like she had forgotten something obvious.

"Because I know what you're doing here," he said, aiming his doll-glass eyes back down at her. Brittany's mouth dropped open and he cut her off, tilting his head somberly: "What you're _really_ doing here."

Brittany swallowed. She felt her face warming. "I—don't know what that means," she stalled, looking across the lot. Only Puck was left, smoking a cigarette and settling his duffel bag in the back of his pickup.

A glance told her Kurt was about to speak. "I have to go," she gushed suddenly, stepping backward. Her body fell naturally into a fighting stance, and her ribs protested. She saw Kurt eye her. He recognized the position.

She stuttered back another step, cheer shoes scuffing against the pavement.

"He's my ride," she lied quickly. Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned and jogged over to Puck.

His surprise rolled off almost instantly, and he smiled as he reached up to take the cigarette from his lips. "Sup, blondie?"

Brittany sucked her lips into her mouth and fought the urge to glance at Kurt. To see if he was following. "Can I have a ride?" she asked, smiling sweetly.

"Sure," Puck said, laughing. "Hop right in." He tucked the cigarette back between his teeth and popped the driver's door, climbing into his seat. Brittany skirted around the hood and slipped in beside him.

"Where to?" he asked, muffled around his pursed lips.

As they passed the entrance, Kurt stared hard right at her through the window.

* * *

><p><em>r u sure u dont want help 2nite?<em>

Brittany pressed Send and stared at her phone screen until it dimmed. Went dark. After another long moment, she eyed the clock.

After a minute without response, she set the phone beside the half-finished worksheet and picked up her pen.

She worked her way through the next line before she let herself glance at the phone. Or _incomodará, _still scratched out in the corner of the page. She pressed the center button—like she wouldn't have heard the buzz against the tabletop, like Santana's reply snuck in under the radar, like it would appear like a reward for doing her work—but the screen just showed the time and the jagged vibrate symbol.

Brittany forced an answer to the next question, then took the phone in her hands and unlocked it. Santana's name burned on the recent call list; Brittany bit her lip, remembering Santana's distraught, distracted look in the hallway, and told herself not to call. Not to intrude.

It took three rings. Santana answered right when Brittany moved her thumb over the button to end the call.

"Brittany. What?"

She sounded so tired.

"Hi," Brittany began, stumbling for words. "I—" Her first thought—her best reason—died in her throat, and she flinched as she blurted, "I texted you."

Over the phone speaker, Santana's heavy sigh crackled like an old radio. "Sorry, Britt, I haven't had a chance to—" A loud _thunk_ cut her off. Brittany heard Santana speaking quietly. Another voice in the background. "Listen," she began after a long moment, but Brittany stopped her.

"It's okay," she pushed, voice a little high. "No, I just wanted to see if…" Brittany bit her lip. She could only think of the truth.

"If what?"

Brittany swallowed. No fibs came. "If you were okay," she admitted finally, shrugging as if Santana could see.

The silence told her what was happening. Darkness drawing over Santana's face like curtains. Her eyes as she retreated. Her hands tight in fists, like they had been on the steering wheel.

"I'm fine," tornado grated. "I don't know what you're talking about."

In the quick silence after, Brittany sensed that tint of regret; of reflexive harshness. She swore she heard a soft intake of breath—like Santana was about to speak—when that murmuring came up in the background again. Brittany heard Santana, away from the mouthpiece, and the other voice grew louder. Angrier.

"I gotta go, Britt," Santana rushed. Another loud _thud_ in the background. "Don't patrol tonight. I'll handle it."

Before Brittany could finish asking—"Are you sure?"—the dial tone buzzed in her ear.

She sighed and put the phone back on her desk.

* * *

><p>"Whoa there," said Puck, raising his hands like a stick-up.<p>

Brittany's hands froze where they'd hooked in his belt. "What's wrong?" she asked, keeping her gaze steady and her eyes from widening.

Puck smiled gently and touched her wrists to guide them away. "Santana," he said, grinning a bit in apology.

Fear and dread dropped in Brittany's stomach. "But I thought you were—" she sputtered, yanking her hands away from him and behind her back. "I thought you still—" She caught his confused look and shook her head. "I thought you weren't, like, exclusive," she finally said. Her face felt hot.

"Oh, we're not," he said, easy smile pinned back in place. He half-turned and resumed searching the back of the drawer in his nightstand.

When Puck leaned forward, crooking his elbow to reach the back panel, he noticed Brittany's bemused frown. "Then why…?" she asked. Feeling awkward under his eyes. Tugging nervously at her belt loops.

He snorted and crouched to pull the drawer almost out of its slot. "Because I was totally serious. You do not fuck with Santana Lopez."

Before Brittany could answer, Puck's eyes lit up and he stood, triumphantly brandishing a baggie of marijuana. "Aha!"

Moving efficiently, like Quinn setting up Cheerios circuits in the gym, Puck crossed the room and retrieved some rolling papers from behind his dresser. "C'mon," he said, gesturing without looking behind him.

* * *

><p>Brittany watched her hand dangle in the air, pale against the sky. Puck plucked the blunt from her limp fingers and she curled them. Her nails glinted in the yellow light.<p>

"Then what?" he asked

With a frown, Brittany squinted past her fingers at the stars. "Then what what?" She swallowed, scanning for the Little Dipper.

"The bear," Puck mumbled. He shifted against the gravel and it crunched. "With the mom."

Brittany craned her neck. Upside-down, she glimpsed the roof access door and the dim, caged lamp between the frame and the overhang. She squirmed against a sharp rock in her shoulder and the gravel crunched again. "I can't see him," she said, pouting.

She twisted her neck, still searching, until she felt pressure at her knuckles. Puck's hand, tucking the joint between her fingers. She brought it toward her lips and smacked them twice before taking another hit.

"Why're you here?" Puck asked. His voice sounded strange. Like the light.

No. Brittany frowned. Not like the light.

"Like, why'd you come?" he said, taking the joint back.

"Dunno," she mumbled, scraping her tongue against the ridges of her teeth. Her mouth tasted dry and strange. Like Puck's voice.

Puck sighed smoke into the air. Brittany's hand dropped across her stomach. He chuckled, slow and sappy. "Do too."

Brittany shrugged. The gravel crunched. "Santana," she mumbled.

That chuckle again. "What 'bout her?"

"Weird phone call," Brittany answered as he passed the blunt back. She blinked at the stars and wondered which phone call she meant.

Puck nodded sagely, Mohawk squishing against the rocks. "Her mom."

"Yeah?" Brittany paused, hand hovering in the air. She could see the red embers curling the paper at the end.

"Her mom's a bitch," he sighed.

Brittany licked her lips, still staring at the blunt. "You met her?"

"Yeah," he echoed. "She needed me to…"

After a minute or two—or something long—Brittany turned her head. Puck was frowning. "She did?" Brittany asked, trying to remember what he'd started with.

Puck twisted his lips and eyed the stars thoughtfully. "Who called?" he asked, turning to face her.

Brittany took a hit and passed back to him. He kept looking at her and held the joint high in the air. Brittany scrunched her forehead and brought the school hallway back to mind. "Rafi?" she tried.

Again, he nodded like he knew what she meant. "He's a good guy," he said. His tongue darted between his lips. "Rafiki."

"That's his name?" asked Brittany, impressed.

"No, his name's Rafael," Puck said with a shrug, bringing the joint to his lips and breathing deep.

Brittany watched the smoke. The light filtered through it. "Who is he?"

Puck stared at the joint and grinned. "Your mom's bartender," he joked. He shifted against the gravel and saw her flat expression. His grin softened. "Well, her mom's bartender."

"The bear's bartender," hummed Brittany thoughtfully, with a frown.

"What?"

Brittany blinked at the sky. The bear? What bear? "Oh. His mom. She was a bear," she said, nudging Puck with her elbow and pointing at the stars.

Puck shook his head and smirked against the joint. Drew another breath. "They're both bears," he said. He shrugged and offered her another hit.

She took it, then let her hand hang in the air again. She wet her lips and swallowed.

"Or, probably more like tigers," Puck mused, licking his lips again.

Brittany turned her wrist and watched the yellow shadows. "I never met her mom."

Puck shrugged against the gravel and bent his right arm to cradle his head. "Don't recommend it," he said mildly.

Sympathetically, Brittany asked, "Not fun?"

He shook his head. He was quiet a moment, then reached blindly for the blunt. She put it in his hands. It was getting short.

Finally, as he sighed another puff of smoke, he asked, "So what was that bear shit, again?" He raised his hand and pointed the end of the joint at a corner of the sky. "That one there?"

"No," said Brittany, shaking her head. He looked at her curiously. "I don't see him. I think he's back there," she explained, nodding awkwardly toward the stairwell entrance.

Puck paused, then reached back toward her. "Last hit?" he asked.

Brittany smiled and took the blunt back. "Such a gentleman," she teased, taking the last taste and then turning it in her fingers.

"Yeah, just don't tell anybody," he said. He chuckled happily and nestled into the gravel.

Brittany smiled faintly, watching the peeling curling burning end of the rolled paper. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Another long pause. Brittany could hear Puck breathing. His eyes were wide open, but his lungs seemed to think he was sleeping.

Finally, his head lolled toward her. His eyes bugged a little. "Watch your fingers," he warned, right as the burn on her fingers pulled a hiss of shock through her teeth.

She chucked the stub away from them, over the lip of the roof. He looked at her with an appreciative smile.

She sucked her singed finger and thumb into her mouth and frowned.

* * *

><p>The squeak of the hinge cut into the dance room and Brittany winced.<p>

"There you are," her teacher muttered, clearly annoyed. Brittany just ducked her head and skittered over to the bench, dumping her duffel bag and swapping shoes as quickly as possible.

Her mom had sped to get her here just fifteen minutes late. A change of clothes had mostly covered the smell on her skin, but she could still taste the weed, dry at the back of her throat.

"Just get into position," Stephanie instructed, gesturing dismissively at the hole in the back of the group as she turned back to start the music. Brittany slinked into her space, glancing uneasily at the girl beside her. The way her lip curled, like Stephanie's. The prim, careful lock of her body into the starting pose.

The music clicked on and Brittany clicked her bones and muscles into place. She followed the movements and felt her face clench against a bolt of pain from her ribs.

"Keep up, straighter there," Stephanie instructed, tapping the calf of a student in the front row. Brittany gritted her teeth and cleared her expression, forcing the irregular ache out of her mind until—

Stephanie lifted her arms dramatically, narrating, "Now jump," and Brittany shadowed the leaps of her classmates but—

She gripped her side, barely keeping in step, and all at once she felt Stephanie hovering near her, like the shadows in her dreams. A sharp squeeze told Brittany it was her injured flesh between her fingers, now; no stake, no weapon, no fist to wield against the darkness.

Just the bruise, deep and soft under the heel of her hand, like an overripe banana or warm wet clay.

"Brittany," Stephanie was snapping, slapping Brittany's shoulder lightly, stopping her while the others danced on. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Brittany said, voice sharp and quiet all at once. She ripped her hand away from her ribs and dropped it at her side. "I'm sorry. I—"

"First you're late," Stephanie bit off, "and you're already messing up. Are you gonna be like this all class?"

Brittany glanced helplessly at the clock. She'd missed the first part anyway; there was hardly enough class left to be any other way.

Her silence earned her another scowl when she turned back to Stephanie. She almost winced as Stephanie folded her arms. "No, forget it. Just go home, Brittany. Come back next class."

Brittany blinked, mouth opening and hand reaching forward. "No, I'm sorry, I just—" she began, words wet despite her dry throat.

"I don't wanna hear it," Stephanie said with a glare and a shake of the head. "I don't want your weird vibes throwing everybody off." Brittany's horror must have shown on her face; Stephanie softened, just a little, and her fingers twitched against her bicep. "Come back next time," she pushed.

Brittany stared aside, at the floor, at the row of street shoes tucked under the bench, and ran the back of her hand against her nose like she wasn't gulping back tears. Without answering Stephanie, she switched her shoes hurriedly and shouldered her bag.

She could feel the eyes on her back as she crept back out the way she came.

* * *

><p>By the time she realized where she was headed, she could see the iron spokes of the fence at the end of the block. Brittany slid the strap of her bag down her arm and dumped it at the corner. At 11 on a weeknight, a duffel bag of dance clothes was hardly a high priority target.<p>

Brittany swooped carefully over the fence, mindful not to stretch her injury too far. She pressed the warmth of her palm against it as she crept through the cemetery. She could hear the hurricane, raging farther across the field; she squinted and glimpsed that skittish shadow.

A throaty yell reached her on the wind. Same as that first night.

Brittany skirted aside, making a wide loop to come up behind them from around a small statue. In the moonlight, Santana's black ponytail looked almost gray, flashing light against her black shirt and dark against the vampire's white face.

Instead of mocking him or cracking jokes, Santana was all fists and knees and snarls, lashing out and back and out again like the pistons in the engine of Brittany's dirtbike. The vamp was struggling, wheeling his arms and legs backward, trying to—

Brittany frowned at the welt blooming on his temple. Santana reared back and smacked him again; Brittany noticed with confusion that a stake poked handily out from Santana's back pocket.

Another kick. No grab for the weapon.

The vamp staggered to a stop, one hand half-raised—almost in surrender. From the distance, Brittany could barely make out a string of Spanish, muttered like a lilting mantra and punctuated by Santana raising her fists like a prizefighter.

"No, don't—" the vamp was saying. Santana kicked his knee and it cracked, bending too far to one side. The vamp winced and crumpled and Santana paused above him.

Another mutter. Santana's head tilted back—Brittany saw her spine bend and her shoulders square; the way her ponytail tossed proudly—and teased the stake from her pocket, almost reluctantly.

Brittany turned away to the sound of the vamp disintegrating. She snuck back to where she'd left her bag and wondered whether she'd ever seen a vampire like that live long enough to get a welt before.


	20. Choke

No thoughts about 19? Hopefully this one inspires more commentary :D let me know what you guys think. Disclaimer for Vertical Horizon's "Everything You Want," and Glee, and Buffy, as aforementioned.

* * *

><p>In the morning, Santana barely grunted through their pleasantries. She chugged black coffee from her thermos, even though it wasn't an early practice day.<p>

Halfway to school, Brittany bunched her courage together and asked, "How was patrolling?"

Tornado only grunted again and flicked her turn signal.

By the time they pulled into the lot, Santana still hadn't spoken a word and Brittany was gripping her backpack more anxiously. She slid off the seat while Santana grabbed her bag from the back.

"Santana?" she asked, barely drawing Santana's eyes. Her face looked so strange Brittany startled for a moment: smooth, cool at the bottom, but with a creased brow and stormy eyes. Brittany chewed the inside of her cheek and then began to ask what was wrong when she heard shouting.

They both looked toward the noise and saw Kurt, standing near the dumpster with a small circle of letterman jackets. Puck was nowhere to be seen, and Azimio was pushing Kurt up against the metal, fists in his collar, hovering over him like a storm cloud.

Out of focus, Brittany saw Santana turn back toward her, but she felt her body seize up and her fists clench and Azimio was shaking Kurt by the collar and rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck and raising his left arm back and before Brittany knew it, she'd dropped her backpack and sprinted over and shoved Azimio bodily out of the way.

"What the motherfuck?" he shouted, louder at the end, grabbing clumsily at Brittany's shirt.

She swatted his hands away and glared at him uncertainly.

"Go on," she heard from behind the pack, and the boys turned to face Santana. Glaring. "You're gonna be late," she said like a threat, low and growly, even though first period wouldn't start for at least fifteen minutes.

The group slowly obeyed, like statues coming unfrozen, shooting lingering sneers at Kurt but filing silently past Santana. Like she had some kind of power over them. She turned to watch them pass.

"Are you okay?" Brittany asked Kurt, turning to face him.

He was so much closer than she expected. She looped her arms around herself and took a half-step backward. "Yes," he said, looking at her with glazed surprise. It took him an extra moment and a hitched breath to add, "Thank you."

Brittany glanced at Santana and Kurt copied her. "Both of you," he amended, voice steadier and thin. Brittany turned back to him and caught the certainty in his expression. The familiarity of his respectful stare. He nodded slowly at Brittany, like he was saying something else.

Santana just shook her head and wandered back toward her car, where their bags still laid. "You're welcome," Brittany said to Kurt, but he took her wrist quickly and held her steady.

"It's safe, you know," he said softly. Hushed. Brittany's blood froze. "I'm safe," he emphasized.

Brittany shook his hand away, staggering away from him. "I don't…" she began, head twisting aimlessly, eyes glued to him.

He stared hard at her and didn't move. She spun when she neared the car, grabbed her bag from Santana, and hurried into the building without looking back.

She could still feel his eyes, burning between her shoulder blades.

* * *

><p>Mr. Schuester looked warily at the papers as Brittany handed them over. "You finished everything?" he asked, like he was sure she hadn't and wasn't sure how to explain it nicely.<p>

With a nod, Brittany listed, "Yesterday's and today's worksheets. And the reading." She scrunched her brows together for emphasis: "Was there more?"

"No, no," he answered. He shrugged and his face relaxed, but he didn't apologize. "Looks good to me."

Brittany waited an extra moment, to see if he had more to say, before pivoting on her heel and shuffling toward the door. His voice froze her, inches from the handle. "Don't forget the homework tonight."

A glance over her shoulder revealed his soft, helpful smile. Brittany could feel something curdling in her stomach. "Yeah," she forced herself to answer, slipping into the hallway before he could add any more.

* * *

><p>After fifteen minutes of silently watching Santana do homework in the library, Brittany shuffled her chair closer and reached over to draw a smiley face on the edge of Santana's notebook.<p>

"Shh, Britt," Santana muttered, brushing her hand away. For a second, those dark eyes flashed up to Brittany's, a little too wide and a little too wet. Shimmering. Fearful.

They dropped back to the notebook and Brittany swallowed. She sank back to the far edge of her chair and noticed she had her textbook open to the wrong page.

* * *

><p>"Do you mind if I play music?"<p>

Whirlwind turned to Brittany, away from her phone, and blinked. Brittany gestured at the radio.

"Oh, sure," said Santana, gaze snagging on Brittany's foot—curled under her left leg—before drifting back to her text.

As Santana tapped the keys, Brittany brought the stereo to life. "_…Past the places where you used to learn_," Vertical Horizon sang out of the speakers.

"Who're you texting?" asked Brittany, adjusting the volume.

"Puck," Santana answered, eyes flicking up and then freezing on the stereo's digital clock as the chorus started.

"_He's everything you want; he's everything you need_," the song went, and Santana flinched at the edges of her eyes like the words were mocking her.

Her thumbs stilled on the keys and Brittany asked, worriedly, "Is something wrong?"

Santana shook her head too forcefully and said "No" too firmly.

"_But he means nothing to you, and you don't know why_."

A twitch, quick and sharp like a hairline fracture across Santana's taut face, and Brittany jabbed the power button. The music died and Santana's eyes snapped to Brittany's.

Carefully, so carefully, Brittany wet her lips and asked in a hush, "Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

Santana stared back out her windshield with a frown. Lip curled. "Positive." She glanced at her lap and punched Send and locked the phone and chucked it between her legs.

Between the key turning in the ignition and Santana pulling the car up Brittany's driveway, Brittany felt too nervous to gather any more clues. Santana had driven calmly, her expression tense and smooth in that strange Santana way, and when she shifted the car directly into Reverse after stopping in front of Brittany's house, Brittany found she'd forgotten everything she wanted to ask.

"I'll handle patrol tonight," said Santana like a warning, eyes dark and wet and glittery.

Brittany nodded and stumbled backward, away from the car.

Santana pulled away without another glance.

* * *

><p>Without patrol or dance to soak up her time, Brittany slogged through her homework with rare focus. She found the vocabulary sheets for Spanish and an extra set of history notes—suspiciously similar to Santana's cramped handwriting—and when she finally snagged on a math problem, it was almost dinnertime.<p>

Brittany held the homework packet curled against her palm, like a newspaper rolled to swat flies, and slid down the stair railing with a soft _woosh_ of fabric. Her side ached dully, but the familiarity felt almost comforting, like the slip of her socks against the hardwood floors.

She padded toward the kitchen—toward the gentle _thuk_ of a wooden spoon against a pot, the hum of the fan over the stove, the rumble of her father's voice—but froze just beyond the doorway when she caught his words.

"I'm worried about her," he was saying, and Brittany glanced instinctively upstairs, at Katie's room. As her fingers tensed against the pages and she began to move inside, to ask what had happened, what was worrying, when he added, "She's never been a strong student, honey."

Brittany froze. Katie was a strong student.

"I know that," Brittany's mother snapped. A sharp sigh. "But have a little faith, won't you?"

A sudden quiet behind the noise of the fan told Brittany her father had stopped walking around. "It's not about faith, I just… I'm worried the move made things worse."

"You can't know that." Sharp again. "School's barely even started."

Her father sighed loudly. "This can't be a repeat of last year, Marika," he said, like a warning. "She won't get into college if her grades don't show improvement."

The pot clattered. Brittany flinched where she'd leaned against the wall. "Goddammit," her mother hissed, "don't you think I know that?"

Brittany gasped, a little too loudly. Like Karofsky punched her right in the chest. The air in her lungs tasted awful and stale.

Her father said nothing, and Brittany forced a new breath and cleared her expression. Mustered her best blank one.

She gulped one last time against the pain in her throat, then swept into the kitchen with the packet raised in her hands. More timidly than she wanted, she asked, "Can you guys help me with my math?"

* * *

><p>After dinner, Brittany spent twenty minutes trying to listen to her mother walking her through the algebra, but she mostly heard the sad rough pity under her voice and the painful gentle look in her eyes.<p>

"Okay, I think I can do it now," Brittany muttered, staring hard at the problem set.

A hand settled on her forearm and squeezed. "Are you sure?" her mother asked.

Brittany nodded mutely and bundled the packet back into a tube as she rose from the table. She skirted the chairs and barely held her father's gaze as she passed him drying dishes by the sink.

She kicked her door shut with her heel and flopped back on her bed. Grabbed her pencil and scribbled the math notes.

At the last question, when she'd emptied her mind of her mother's clues, her pencil slowed on the calculations, and she stared at the last formula with distrust.

The answer didn't come.

Brittany tugged the end of her ponytail over her shoulder and rubbed the strands between her fingers. She glanced at her phone and squirmed, still feeling the hot embarrassment from downstairs and the hot frustration from the homework and the hot ache in her ribs.

She unlocked it and found a new message from Beiste: _I talked to Santana, dont patrol tonight. Rest up_.

Dejected, she closed the message and stared at her background again. Just before the backlight dimmed, she thumbed over to Contacts and scrolled aimlessly down her list.

She was about to change her mind—maybe sneak into the dance studio instead, make up for missing class—when she spotted Matt's name. She remembered his friendliness at his party, his kind face. With a glance at her homework, triumphant and defiant, she texted him, _did u do the math? whatr u doin 2nite?_

Matt answered the door with a smile, rubbing the back of his scalp nervously, standing aside to let her inside. He led her to the kitchen table, where his homework was laid out.

"I just finished," he said, gravitating toward a cabinet between the kitchen and the dining room. "Do you want something to eat—or drink?" He raised an eyebrow pointedly and Brittany smiled back and nodded. As he knelt and opened the cupboard, he asked, "What's your drink of choice, again? Tequila?"

Brittany wet her lips and corrected, "Whiskey, but whatever you've got is fine." Her fingers brushed her ribs automatically, like they were making a note for later.

While he poured shots, Matt asked, "Did you finish? The homework?" like he really meant _Is that actually why you came?_

Brittany shrugged, watching how he capped the bottle casually, without nervous glances around the rooms for stray parents or siblings. "I just drew a picture," she answered vaguely. She felt her stomach twist when he just nodded, smirking, unsurprised.

"Here ya go," he said, handing her a shot and clinking its rim with his own. "To fuckin' weeknight drinking, huh?"

He poured the whiskey down with a wide grin and slammed the glass on the table. Brittany followed with a flick of the wrist, but as soon as her hand drifted downward, Matt was snatching her shot glass and going back to the cabinet.

On the third round, Brittany mumbled, "You know, I never saw your room," because even though Matt's eyes were getting weirdly dark and flat, boys' eyes always got dark when they wanted her, and really she just wanted—

"I could show you," he said too seriously, staring hard at her over the rim of his empty glass. Brittany giggled, but his expression stayed, too shadowy and intense.

Brittany nodded and he put their glasses beside his forgotten notebooks and took her wrist. Brittany felt his fingers pressing against her pulse point and swallowed; as they trotted to the second floor, she let her feet slop on the third stair, nearly tugging her arm from his grasp. "Come on," he scoffed, pulling her up one-handed.

Matt left the door to his room open. Brittany slipped up against him, smiling coyly, pushing their mouths together. He grunted and wrapped his fingers at the back of her neck, like fitting into the grips of a steering wheel. His breath was hot and stale; she could feel his teeth against her lip, where he pressed too hard.

She hummed instead of speaking; she had nothing to say to him. The hum triggered something, though, because his free hand grabbed blindly at her jeans and yanked her hips forward by a belt loop. He ground against her and she grimaced. Her curling lip scratched the dryness of his and he grunted again—more a growl—and pushed their hips together, firmer than before.

A twist pressed his crotch squarely against Brittany's thigh and she recoiled. His hands fell slack, maybe in surprise, but she opened her eyes and saw him fumbling with his belt. Brittany frowned and started, "What are you—"

"Come on," he said again, and she saw his flat eyes with sudden clarity as his left hand curled behind her neck again. He opened his jeans with his right hand as his left dragged her head downward.

Her eyes widened and she smacked his hand away. Stood straighter and stepped backward. "What the fuck?" she was asking, right as he said the same thing.

A second's hesitation and he turned angry. "Wait, _me _what the fuck?" he asked, pointing at himself. He sneered and pointed at her. "No, _you _what the fuck. This is why you came—"

Brittany was at the top of the stairs before he finished his sentence, and out the door a moment later.

Over the chill night air and the flush of liquor in her cheeks, all Brittany could feel was the throb of her ribs and the ghost of Matt grinding against her thigh.

* * *

><p>Something brought Brittany to the cemetery. Her pounding pulse, maybe. The stale dryness of her throat. Either way, the iron spokes grazing the front of her legs helped scrape the memory of Matt off her jeans.<p>

Close to the center of the yard, Brittany heard that rough voice, scratching between registers: "Good grief, how long has it been since your hoedown left you low down, Howdy Doody?"

Brittany heard a snarl and the _snak _of bone against granite. Brittany skirted the mausoleum and peered into the darkness, lamenting the new moon.

"Aw, don't you wanna play?" goaded Santana from close by. Brittany jogged forward, swiveling her head like a security camera, and she could hear Santana's smirk when she added, "If you wanna play Red Light Green Light, you really oughta practice."

Just as Brittany registered how close the voice was, she whirled and watched an iron fist waver a hair's breadth to the left of her right cheekbone. Her heart leapt to her throat like bile and she almost shook.

"_Hijo de _motherfucking _puta_, Britt," Santana snapped, wheeling backward and reeling her fist away from Brittany's face. Brittany touched her warming cheek absently as Santana zeroed in on her with newly narrowed eyes. "I told you to stay home!"

"I know, I just—"

"Duck!"

Brittany opened her mouth to ask _Where?_ during her slow-motion fall to the grass. She squirmed onto her back, ribs protesting, and watched Santana plant her heel squarely beneath the brim of a corduroy cowboy hat and above a row of gnarly pointed teeth.

The vamp gripped Santana's ankle as he staggered backward; used the momentum from her kick to tug her aside, so she landed in half-splits and on her back. Brittany scrambled to her feet and raised her fists against his chuckle.

"Hey, darlin'," Lucky Luke drawled. He swaggered toward her and eyed her fists with amusement. "Boy, did you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Hardly," grunted Santana from the ground, grabbing one cowboy boot and tugging mightily. The vamp went down with an undignified yelp.

Brittany giggled and yanked Santana upright, ignoring the ache in her side. "Brittany," Santana hissed, gripping her elbow in a distracted second, "I told you not to—"

Her words cut off at the vamp's punch to her gut; she backed up several paces. Brittany kneed Woody hard in the gut and felt the round of his kidney against her kneecap with a grim smile.

"Fuck, Blondie," he growled, arms cradling his belly. He grinned up at her in the dark; the dim starlight glinted off bright, mean teeth. "I like 'em fiery. Bet you taste sweet."

Brittany swiped at him and he twisted away. "Slayer blood's the drink of choice," he continued, grinning as he pawed at her off-kilter jabs.

A shadow caught the corner of her vision as Santana flew into the vamp, pinning his body under hers on the grass. "God, am I tired of hearing you talk," she drawled, beautiful teeth bared, hair a swath behind her dark dark eyes, dark as the blackness around them—

Hands tangled in his, struggling against the ground—

Brittany surged forward, kicking at Buffalo Bill's headpiece and catching the brim and his temple with her toe. He snarled and rushed forward, a blast of strength against Santana's wobbling arms, and threw her into Brittany's legs above the knee. They toppled back, tangling together; Santana crawled off and half-upright when Buck Rogers shoved her along, a yard or so away. Brittany leaned up on her elbow, her ribs throbbing painfully against the dirt beneath them, and—

Johnny West stomped hard on the back of her hand. Pain rippled out along shivering bones and she yelped. Her breath bounced off his polished boots and against her ear and she smelled the blood before she saw it, opened her eyes to—

A long smear of dark ink, glistening off his spur and dripping along the gash in her arm, deep and wide like a coin slot where it started beside her elbow. The smell was thick, an iron taste in the air, and Brittany wondered if the heartbeat in her hand was pushing the blood up and out and onto the grass.

She'd barely begun to stitch the thought together when the boot disappeared. Almost hazily, she heard rustling and heavy breathing to her other side. She couldn't muster the strength to turn her head. Mesmerized by the life oozing out of her. Black in the darkness. Matting the thin hairs on her arm.

Tornado's voice buzzed; the grass and Brittany's hand and the long pain across her forearm started to blend together, then stand out like a stamp across the inside of her eyeballs. She squeezed her eyes shut, hard, gritting her teeth against the sudden shock, and she recognized the echoing sound—like blowing the open mouth of a bottle—of Hopalong Cassidy meeting a dusty end.

Moments later, a hand with scored knuckles wrapped around her upper arm. Santana hoisted her to her feet and looked her over with worried eyes.

"You might need stitches," she said, voice low and too light, too raspy. She touched Brittany's forearm and held the gash together with her fingers, watching the inky blood staining them.

Brittany just tilted her head. Quizzical. She felt warm water dripping down her arm and Santana's hand.

No. Too slow for water.

"Stitches?" she repeated slowly, like her mouth was filled with marbles.

Santana's face twisted. Almost—sad. "Can you—" She cut herself off with a sigh and shook her head.

Brittany glanced up at the clouds. Tried to see the stars beyond, with a squint. "Can I what?" she asked, feeling lightheaded.

Another sigh. Brittany's gaze wandered back to Santana's concerned face. "Come on," she finally said, a bit more decisive. She gripped Brittany's wound tighter—the pressure stung, like a brand in the shape of Santana's thumbprint—and steered toward the small parking lot. "I'll patch you up."


	21. Air

Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Pretty different from the last few. Rating bump to be safe. Let me know what you think, and check my tumblr at ehefic for updates/occasional sneak previews and such.

* * *

><p>Brittany held the red Cheerios towel around her arm almost absently as she peered up at Santana's dark house. No lights on. She wondered how late it was.<p>

She jumped at the _thud _of the car door; she turned to see Santana eyeing her, worry and concern overtaking any apology for the sudden noise.

They stood like that—frozen, close together, with Brittany's hand on the towel and Santana's on the car roof, like a statue or a plateau or maybe a painting, like those portraits they'd seen in the history book when they studied last—

Santana touched the small of her back and brandished her keys, like the last time. Brittany drifted after her. Watched her fight the door open.

When it banged the wall, stubborn and angry, Brittany winced. "Won't we wake your mom?" she asked uneasily. Glancing into the dark house.

For once, Santana didn't snap; she stared dully at Brittany's arm—at the darkness seeping through the terrycloth—and sighed, like a confession, "She's not home."

Santana pressed gently at Brittany's shoulder, turning her and guiding her toward the kitchen. Brittany lingered at the doorway. Heard the door shut. Felt a draft, a last gush of night air, against her back. She squinted at the oven.

Green numbers. 1:38.

"Come on," said Santana, helping her out of her shoes. Her voice sounded strange, like her light touch at Brittany's spine. Like a ghost. Like a hallucination.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Santana was saying, and she curled her hand over Brittany's to hold the towel tighter. Brittany hissed. Only realized it when Santana's eyes flashed at her face.

Brittany swallowed. Her brow crumpled. "Sorry," she whispered, strained with sincerity.

Whirlwind shook her head and bit her lip. "It's fine," she said, like it wasn't fine, and she pulled Brittany gently through the dark kitchen and a dark living room and a third dark room with a staircase. On the second floor, she steered into a little bathroom, sat Brittany down, and flicked the light on.

Brittany winced at it. "Shh, honey," Santana said softly, covering Brittany's eyes with her warm warm hand. "Keep your eyes shut. I gotta take a look."

As the hand peeled away, Brittany let her eyes adjust to the fire red of her eyelids. Felt her face begin to relax. Santana shooed her hand from the towel and she felt it peel back.

The air felt frigid without the cloth and their hands.

"Cold," Brittany murmured, right before warm wet fabric touched her skin. She sighed instantly and smiled a little. "How'd ya know?"

"I'm just cleaning it." Brittany realized the tap was running. The water made _shoosh _noises against the sink bowl. "This might sting," Santana warned, right when she started scrubbing.

Brittany hissed and her eyes popped open. She recoiled a little again at the sight of her arm: The cut looked as deep as it felt, and blood was dry or drying all around it. Like she'd dipped it in Kool-Aid.

Thick, sticky Kool-Aid.

"Easy, easy," Santana was saying hurriedly, touching Brittany's shoulder and face with her free hand to calm her down. "_Tranquila_, _tranquila_," she cooed, brushing her thumb against Brittany's temple.

Brittany looked at her and dropped into her eyes, dark and wide and wild. She sniffled and breathed, one, two, three times, before nodding slowly against the panic of pain.

Santana hovered there—near Brittany's face—for an extra second before pulling back. She was bending awkwardly, holding Brittany's arm steady and scrubbing carefully at the red smear. She worked quietly, dipping the washcloth back under the faucet to keep it damp, and Brittany glanced between her and the room.

The bathroom was too small for the two of them. Maybe too small for one. A little tub in the corner with a cheap shower curtain. Two towel rods with chipped chrome paint and a pair of towels. A stand-alone sink. A small end table with a makeup kit on top. The medicine cabinet.

The cloth scraped the cut and Brittany sucked air through her teeth. Santana's hand froze and she glanced at Brittany apologetically. "I'm almost done," she offered, looking pointedly downward.

Brittany bit the inside of her cheek and followed Santana's eyes. Her arm was mostly clean except a line of moist red along the cut itself. Santana had the washcloth poised at the tip to wipe it away.

"How bad is it?" asked Brittany, frowning to keep her skin in focus. Her vision felt funny. Head felt funny. Swimmy.

Santana hesitated. Moved the washcloth again. Slowly. More gently.

"Better than it looked," she finally acknowledged, a bit warily. As the cloth sopped up the mess, the wound seemed clearer. Smaller. Jagged; thick; but not that deep, in most places. "Plus, it should heal quick."

The sentence ended too short and crisp. Brittany saw Santana's eyes switch, under her eyelashes, to stare at Brittany's ribs. Brittany's fingers curled instinctively.

Tornado looked right up at her. Right into her.

"Are you still not healing?" she asked, barely above a breath, like the silence of the empty house would suck it up and keep it secret.

Brittany swallowed and shrugged. She glanced aimlessly around the room and then lifted her shirt with her free hand to show the fading bruise. "Just… slow," she managed, shrugging again and dropping her arm. Santana wet her lips—eyes still glued to the spot—and nodded.

Another long pause and Santana shook her head, quickly wiping the last of the blood away—and a new trickle, from the deepest part near Brittany's elbow—and stood, turned, to open the bottom drawer of the little end table. She pulled a small plastic case out and used it to scoot the makeup bag to the edge of the tabletop. Brittany worried the edge of the Cheerios towel, still draped across her right thigh under her wounded arm, and watched as Santana opened the latches with a _snap_ and flipped the lid.

Piles of gauze and bandages puffed up without the pressure of the closed box. Santana ruffled through—tossing small rolls of gauze and wraps from the base to the lid with smooth, beautiful flicks of the wrist—and produced a little box of steri-strips.

Brittany reached instinctively to itch the cut, but drew away when she realized it. She licked her lips nervously as Santana set the bloodied washcloth in the sink to soak.

She hadn't seen her plug the drain. She blinked hazily.

Santana knelt and opened the box, pulling out a small white page of strips and balancing it cautiously on Brittany's left knee. She touched the cut gingerly, drawing the edges together and watching Brittany bite her lip, and Brittany reached out distractedly to hold the strips in her palm.

She offered it and Santana smiled at her. Just a little. "Thanks, Britt," she said, soft and rough. She peeled the first strip and Brittany held the corner of the paper with her thumb. Santana laid the strip carefully where she held the gash together, then pressed it into Brittany's skin with the thumb of her right hand.

Brittany swallowed.

* * *

><p>"Are you okay?" asked Santana, a bit later, as she pressed another strip into Brittany's skin, close to the other end of the wound.<p>

Brittany nodded, watching Santana's black nails flash in the light. She blinked and looked around for a clock. "When's your mom coming home?" she asked as she spied a small analog clock on the windowsill, arms pointing to 2:03.

Santana's finger slipped and Brittany bit her lip, hard, when it tugged at the raw cut. "Sorry," she murmured, for startling her.

"Don't worry about it," Santana muttered, hurriedly fixing the strip. She glanced at Brittany's palm. The sheet, nearly empty. She stood and backed over to the table, unzipping the makeup bag and pawing through it. Brittany could see Santana's knuckles against the fabric. Like when she'd searched for cigarettes in Quinn's bedroom, a thousand years ago.

She brought a pair of nail scissors over and peeled a strip from the paper. Brittany watched her cut it in half and arrange both strips across the tapered end of the cut. She cut a second strip and filled the last gap in the row with one of the halves. She stuck the other to the paper and took it from Brittany's hand. Bent to pick up the box. Went to put it all away.

Brittany ran her fingers feather-light over the row. Like a ladder. Or little railroad tracks. Under the bits of tan fabric, the angry red line seemed subdued. Like the strips were prison bars, containing it. Forcing it to consider the consequences of its actions and become a productive member of society.

"Britt."

Santana's fingers tipped Brittany's chin upward. She blinked at those dark eyes, still a bit too wide. She swallowed against her dry throat and whispered, "What?"

A deep breath, then Santana stayed quiet and shook her head. She opened her mouth—like she'd speak—but then she just bit her lip.

"Do you want anything for your—whoa," Santana cut off as Brittany stood abruptly and wobbled. She was close—too close—knees knocking the toilet lid—and Santana braced her shoulders gently and backed toward the table to give her space.

Brittany took a deep breath and noticed her vision had sharpened a little, since they'd gotten back. "For my what?" she asked and frowned.

Dark eyes darted down. "Your hand," Santana said. Brittany raised it in confusion and then connected it to the vague ache in the back of her mind, where her ribs usually thrummed. Her knuckles were scraped a little and the joints under her flesh felt creaky and pained.

Silently, she nodded.

"Here," Santana murmured, turning to open the medicine cabinet and get a shot glass and off-brand Aspirin from the second shelf. Santana ran the faucet on cold—it splashed against the red puddle where the washcloth still soaked—and dashed the shot glass under the water while she popped the Aspirin open with one hand.

She shut off the stream with her wrist and offered the glass. Brittany took it in her good hand and watched Santana tip two pills out; she held them between her fingers and thumb and reached gently—but not hesitantly—toward Brittany's mouth.

Brittany found herself making eye contact as the pills slipped between her lips. Her tongue shifted to catch them and she caught the dark tang of Santana's skin, like the soap she must have washed her hands with while Brittany'd been dazed.

Santana tugged her hand away, sharp as she had when she'd leaned on Brittany's bruise, and Brittany nervously washed the pills down with the water. Santana took the glass back before Brittany could offer it to her and tucked it back onto the cabinet shelf beside the aspirin.

"Santana," Brittany began, but when Santana shut the cabinet and turned, she found she'd forgotten what she wanted to say.

Dark eyes considered her. Waiting for more.

When she just stood, letting her mouth hang partway open and gingerly flexing her sore right hand, Santana glanced at the clock and bit her lips between her teeth. "It's late," she said, twisting her fingers together in front of her belt buckle. Brittany read 2:15 on the little clock. "Maybe you should just stay over."

Brittany blinked at her in surprise. "Okay," she said softly. A slow smile twisted Santana's lips and Brittany added, with a shrug, "I can text my mom."

"Yeah," Santana said, looking absently out the window at the darkness and touching Brittany's elbow to guide her back into the little upstairs hallway. Brittany tugged her phone out of her pocket as Santana flicked the light off.

She moved blindly and typed: _staying at sans ill get my bag b4 school_. As she hit Send, she looked up and lifted her eyebrows at the dark little room.

Santana crowded in behind her, flipping a switch to light the weak ceiling fixture, and Brittany shuffled farther inside. Dropped the phone back in her pocket. "This is your room?" she asked, unnecessarily.

Two windows across from the door with heavy half-drawn curtains. A small dresser against the wall on the left, braced at the corner by one window, with a jewelry box and a little mirror on top. Closet doors from there to the hall. To the right, two shelves, laden with irregular piles of books and CDs, hung above a twin bed with black cotton sheets. A nightstand like the one in the bathroom, scratched at its legs and corners. A reading lamp with a phone charger taped to its base. A paperback copy of _Frankenstein _with curling pages. Against the angled wall beside the door was a crooked rack of coat hooks with two coats, a Cheerios jacket, and two scarves on the pegs. The scarves dangled into an open trunk, filled messily with stakes and axes and vials of holy water.

Santana didn't answer. She moved awkwardly past Brittany and hugged herself. Stared at the shadow under the bed with a furrowed brow.

Brittany ducked her head to catch Santana's eye and asked, gently, "Checking for monsters?"

That unfroze her. Santana rolled her shoulders and shook her head. "C'mon, you must be tired."

Brittany trailed her to the dresser. Santana opened the second-to-top drawer, glancing at Brittany, and offered her a soft t-shirt from the pile on the left. Brittany took it with a smile—read _Fordham Middle School_ in faded green letters across the front—and Santana swapped drawers to hand her a pair of shorts, too.

"Thanks," Brittany said quietly, dropping the bundle on the floor and stripping her shirt off. She heard the drawer rollers, quick then slow, and she opened her eyes to find Santana looking shyly at her body. Her movements slowed as she guided the sleeve carefully past the strips on her arm. "Santana?" she asked, almost a whisper.

A shiver rippled Santana's throat and she stared back at the drawer. Brittany could see her blush, even in the dim light. Brittany felt her heart slog against her chest and she took a step forward, socks shuffling on the floor, and she reached out with her injured arm, the raw nerves tingling like she was back on her bike and—

Santana stiffened when Brittany touched her cheek, but she let Brittany turn her by the chin. Met her eyes. "San?" asked Brittany, even softer this time.

"Brittany," said Santana, helpless and pleading for—something, maybe just for guidance, "I don't know what I—"

"That's okay." Brittany shook her head and brought her left foot next to her right, settling her stance with her bare belly just inches from Santana's knuckles, still resting on the corner of the half-closed drawer. She curved her thumb up over Santana's soft soft lips and looked down at it, at the way her nail polish looked so bright and fake next to dark red skin. She could feel the remnants of Santana's lipstick melting under her touch.

Santana swallowed again and Brittany looked up at Santana's eyes as Santana looked down at Brittany's lips. Santana's tongue darted out and Brittany's breath hitched. She slipped her thumb to the side—the red smeared lightly on their skin—and moved forward, a half-step, to kiss her.

Santana turned toward her immediately, closing the drawer with a _thuk _and tilting her head to the right. Brittany smiled and kissed back, fitting their lips like puzzle pieces, dry and soft and perfect. She stroked back along Santana's face and hooked her fingers behind Santana's ear, along her neck.

Santana made a noise, touched Brittany's waist, and stepped up against her. She licked into the kiss to moisten their lips but her tongue snuck up against Brittany's teeth, and—

Brittany's left hand snatched forward, bunching Santana's shirt at the low curve of her spine and pulling her forward. She hummed, or maybe moaned, or maybe it was Santana—

Warm palms spread against her waist and Santana's fingertips dug in gently above her hipbones. Brittany reared up—she could feel Santana's warm stomach through the shirt—but Santana was already pushing harder, more insistent, and her hands stuttered down to Brittany's hips and pulled, and—

Brittany staggered back a step, dragging Santana with her, and pivoted to wedge her against the side of the dresser. Her right hand slipped under Santana's shirt, flat and hot against the base of her ribs. Santana had twisted her mouth and started sucking on Brittany's lip, and just as her teeth closed down gently, Brittany pulled away and stamped searing kisses on her jaw.

"Britt—" Santana choked, fingers crawling up Brittany's bare back, and the sudden warmth after the cool air of the room felt ticklish. Brittany squirmed forward and Santana gasped and jolted her hips against Brittany's.

At Santana's ear, Brittany husked, "You okay?"

Santana grunted and whined and her left hand fell back to Brittany's hip. Pulled it between her own and let her mouth drop open. Brittany sucked Santana's earlobe, heard the aluminum stud click against her teeth, and then repeated: "You okay?"

"Fuck, yeah," Santana managed, sounding surprised. Her nails scratched near Brittany's bra clasp and Brittany moved away from Santana's ear so she could glance at the bed.

Santana kissed her again; she'd missed the hint under closed eyes. Brittany groaned, nibbled Santana's top lip, and drew back again to suggest, "Bed?"

Dark eyes flashed open. Santana growled and surged forward, walking Brittany backward toward the bed and scrabbling at the clasp with her right hand.

"Hey," Brittany said, voice low and rough, quirking an eyebrow and pausing them beside the bed. Santana looked at her—surprised and impatient, pupils deep and deep and dark and dark—and Brittany grabbed the hem of Santana's shirt to pull it off.

Santana let her, but kissed her again before the shirt even hit the floor. Her quick fingers dove to Brittany's jeans, first tugging her closer and then opening them.

Brittany smiled. "Yours too," she hummed against Santana's lips and broke away to push her jeans down her legs.

Another growl of frustration and Santana's pants joined Brittany's in a heap; hurricane raged into the next kiss, arms around Brittany's neck, body curving like a bow. Brittany grinned again—Santana nipped at her—and flopped them sideways, narrowly missing the window edge.

She hissed at the pressure on her slashed arm—she'd loped it over Santana's shoulder before they fell—but Santana shot forward again, off Brittany's arm and onto her body, their legs tangling off the bed and knocking the floor. Brittany propped them up on her elbows and shuttled clockwise; Santana let her move them both, propping her left hand on Brittany's unwounded ribs and sucking Brittany's lower lip.

Brittany sighed and relaxed, grazing the pillow with the crown of her head, and Santana shifted on top of her to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the edge of her jaw.

"Santana," she whispered tightly, cupping the dip at Santana's waist and feeling muscle ridges under the tips of her thumbs.

"What?" Santana asked against her throat, the rough willow rasp of her singing voice.

The sound made Brittany shudder and Santana pressed harder against her, sinking their stomachs together and her thigh between Brittany's. She felt those lips curl against the skin under her ear and Santana purred, again, "What?" as she drew back and hovered over Brittany's face.

Brittany's eyes popped open and she stared into Santana's through drooping lids. She smiled a little and slipped one hand up Santana's back to snap open her bra. Santana gasped a little and then smirked. Brittany smirked back and clawed playfully at the straps. Santana let them fall—the bra spread open under Brittany's and Santana walked her hands out one at a time—and Brittany gasped, eyes dropping naturally, helplessly—

Santana was smiling, but more shyly, fidgeting even as she tossed it aside, and Brittany shot her a look of mock surprise when Santana's thigh jerked between Brittany's. "Santana," she said, about to tease, but Santana did it again and her eyes rolled back—

"What is it, Britt?" asked Santana again, breath hot and right at Brittany's ear, and Brittany swallowed hard and decided it was too early to lose this game.

She twisted up and moved her hand to grip just under Santana's arm, thumb brushing boldly over her nipple, and flipped them over.

It made her grin to see Santana, flushed and breathless, settling uneasily beneath her with bedroom eyes.

"Nothing, San," she whispered, letting her gaze wander and her thumb smooth back and forth over warm skin. Santana whimpered and Brittany dipped down to kiss her again. Deeper.

"Not fair," Santana gasped when Brittany broke for air. Brittany smiled at her curiously and Santana wrapped her arms behind Brittany's back. Brittany grinned as her bra came undone and slipped down her arms. Santana stared—almost nervously—and licked her lips.

Brittany swatted the bra off the bed; swayed slightly without meaning to and brushed their breasts together. She gulped audibly, meeting Santana's wide eyes for just an instant, and kissed her again, this time setting skin to skin. The contact made them both gasp again; she tasted Santana's breath, hot and dark, like a clot of summer at the back of her throat.

She felt Santana's nails along her shoulder blades. Digging lightly. Her hips rolled forward and Santana keened into her mouth.

"Britt," said Santana, muffled against her lips, shifting underneath her until Brittany's thigh settled between her legs. Santana gripped the back of her neck and kissed her hard, pushing with her teeth, and jerked her hips over and over. The lace scratched Brittany's skin and she bit at Santana's lips.

She adjusted her right arm—still braced by Santana's head—and skimmed her left away from Santana's breast and downward, trailing the dips in her abs as they stretched with each breath.

The breaths came slower and left as puffed gasps. Brittany leaned back to look Santana in the eye—flicking between them—when her fingertips brushed lace-cloaked elastic. She wet her lips—saw Santana glance at her tongue where it darted out—and swallowed. "Santana," she said breathily, "can I?" She snapped the band lightly with her index finger.

Santana inhaled deeply—her chest expanded and brushed against Brittany's, beautiful and soft—with sharp tips—and she swallowed, ducked her head in a half-nod, and canted her hips to slip Brittany's fingertips under the fabric.

With a deep bracing breath and a nervous grin, Brittany tugged down a little and flipped her hand, sliding over warm warm skin and short hair into wet warm heat and—

She could smell it, sharp and sweet like Santana's sweat after Cheerios, like right now, and she looked at Santana in surprise, curling her fingers gently to feel the—

Santana gaped at her, blushing at the look on Brittany's face and the sound as she moved, but Brittany brushed her fingertip sideways—gently—lightly over the button of nerves and Santana's deep dark scared eyes squeezed shut and she panted, whimpered, gripped the back of Brittany's neck with the effort to keep her hips still and—

Brittany followed the path again, a long, slow circle, and Santana cried out, clenched her fingers, scratched Brittany's skin below her hairline, and Brittany braced her hips against her wrist and leaned down to kiss her and—

A _thunk _from the doorway.

They leapt apart. The draft made Brittany's wet fingers feel cold.

"Santna."

The woman slumped against the doorway. Her foot rustled the purse on the floor.

Santana snatched her shirt from the floor and held it against her chest. Brittany could see the tense muscles across her back, casting shadows like spidery skeletal wings in the dim light.

Santana's voice came out tortured and strangled.

"Mami."


	22. Harsh Light of Day

Santana yanked the shirt over her head and crossed the room so quickly it seemed like a single step. She touched her mother's shoulder and waist. They looked starkly alike in the dim light, with the same dark hair and eyes; the same thin build. Her mother's eyes and skin looked worn and stretched and grayed. A thin cross tattoo sloped, faded, across the ridge of her vein and collarbone. She stayed slumped under Santana's hands.

Brittany dug her hip into the sheets as she grabbed the edge. Held it over her breasts.

"_Venga_," Santana murmured to her mother. Her mother aimed a drooping glare at her—ignoring Brittany, or maybe she hadn't even seen her—and straightened slightly. With her back unbent, she hovered a few inches over Santana.

Santana's honey Spanish sounded nothing like the ribbon from her mother, too fast and fluid to follow. Hers came out like poison, though: a snake spewing venom. Brittany saw Santana flinch when spittle flecked her face.

Gently, she pulled her mother's hand from the doorframe and cupped it with her own, and with her other hand draped on her mother's shoulder, it looked like a halfhearted waltz. Santana moved to guide her mother into the hallway and her mother slapped her hands away. "No me toques," she slurred, and suddenly her gaze cut to Brittany.

Brittany drew back. Felt the windowsill dig at her spine. She wondered if Santana's eyes could go this sharp. Dragging like a rake down her body.

"¿Quién es la puta?" growled Santana's mother. Santana looked at Brittany in alarm; Brittany carefully froze her expression and tried to dial it back into blankness.

The rapid pulse at her throat made it difficult.

Santana pushed more insistently, and though her mother's Spanish picked up instantaneously, they shuffled out into the little hallway. The light flashed silver against a strip of Santana's inner thigh as she walked. Brittany felt her cheeks burning red and her fingers cold where they clutched the sheet.

Their steps creaked against the wood outside the door. "Mami, you need to go to bed," Santana soothed.

Brittany crept off the bed and snatched her bra off the floor. Santana's mother was talking harsher, getting louder, as Brittany snapped the clasp and skittered over to the shirts and shorts piled by the dresser.

Santana's calming voice drifted: "It's late. You must be tired." Brittany grabbed one of the shirts without checking which one; when she pulled it over her head, she noticed the name of Santana's middle school spread across her chest. She listened to their voices overlap and glanced between the sleep shorts and her jeans, wondering if she was about to be shown the door. Or the window.

She heard Santana's mother, quieter this time. Brittany hurriedly grabbed the black Soffe shorts and tugged them up to sit low on her hips.

Then, suddenly, the walls rebounded Santana's mother's voice, yelling loud enough to make Brittany jump. "¡No hija mía será bujarra!"

_Tschh_. Glass. Something breakable. Brittany rushed to lean out into the hallway and saw jagged ceramic pieces on the floor opposite the lit doorway. She saw a shadow dash across the patch of carpet she could see.

"¿Por qué lo merezco?" Santana's mother demanded, shriller with each word. "¿Me das esa vergüenza para que puedas tortillear con ese cuero?"

The end sounded jeering. Cruel. Brittany stepped cautiously into the hallway, eyes on the glass and shadows on the floor. The next bedroom was barely two yards down the hall.

She couldn't hear Santana's voice at all, now. If she was making noise, it was masked by her mother's angry, sloppy stomping.

Her mother started growling words again. As they began to get louder, Brittany took a deep breath and turned left instead.

Slunk down the stairs.

* * *

><p>Brittany had almost fallen asleep right on the stoop when she heard the door open behind her. She curled her knees near her chest, feet braced on the bottommost step. She knew the tense, uneven breathing. Knew this flavor of quiet.<p>

Sure as anything, another moment of stillness brought Santana beside her, sitting on the middle step and looping her arms loosely around her knees. Brittany hugged herself—wedged her forearms between her bare thighs and her tender belly—and waited.

The grass around Santana's car was barely more alive than the dirt patch beneath it. A battered picnic table with three wobbly chairs sat between the car and the hedges.

"I'm sorry," Santana finally said. The words sounded wet, like she'd said them underwater. Brittany guessed there were tears in her throat.

Brittany chewed her lip and wondered what Santana was apologizing for. "Me too," she guessed timidly. Out of the corner of her eye, she snuck a look at Santana. She was still just wearing the t-shirt over her underwear. Like she'd come straight downstairs.

"It's not your fault," Santana croaked. Brittany looked and Santana's eyes were closed.

It was dark. Even with her eyes adjusted, Brittany couldn't tell if she saw tears.

Brittany rubbed her thumb against one of the steri-strips. "If I hadn't gotten hurt… none of this would've happened," she said. Hollow, like she felt.

Her thumb brushed her index finger, dried and sticky from before. She stopped moving her hand entirely.

"It was her," said Santana. She sniffed, super quiet. She wiped her nose angrily against her shoulder and Brittany made a point to look hard at the grass. "She always—"

She trailed off abruptly.

A long moment passed, and Santana ran a hand through her hair. She'd taken it down. Brittany wet her lips. She shut her eyes and looked upward, for inspiration. "Help me find Orion," she whispered suddenly.

She heard Santana's hair, shifting against her shoulders like feathery leaves. Brittany turned—met those dark eyes—and nodded gently upward, at the stars.

Santana considered her for what felt like forever, wearing an expression Brittany'd never seen before. It wasn't until hurricane craned her neck back at the stars with her lips between her teeth and her eyes wet and shimmering that Brittany realized she'd held her breath.

"Is that him, there?" asked Santana in a hoarse whisper, after a few minutes. She pointed above them; Brittany admired her smooth skin with strange sadness.

"Yeah," she replied, and swallowed. "That's him."

Santana pulled her arm back around her knees. They sat in easier silence; it stretched between them like a shared secret.

Eventually, Santana's left hand drifted to the stair between them. She inched it up to link gently with Brittany's fingers, where they poked out by her elbow. Santana's lips pursed slightly at the texture, but before the heat could rush back to Brittany's cheeks, Santana was pulling her upright.

"Come on," Santana said, giving her that full, full look again, like forever ago in the graveyard. Like she was holding a bucket brimming with water and didn't want to spill any. She swung their linked hands lightly and stepped backward up one stair. "Let's go to bed."

For the second time, Brittany followed her through the house and up the stairs.

Santana shut her bedroom door with a careful _click _before they climbed into the bed without dusting the dirt off their clothes.

Later, just before Brittany slipped into sleep, she thought she heard Santana crying where she'd rolled away. Brittany watched her back for long minutes—watched the quiver of her shoulders—and gritted her teeth to keep from pulling Santana against her and holding her close.

* * *

><p>Strange dreams of Santana at Matt's house and scalding rain dribbling down Brittany's forearm blurred into the hushed darkness of Santana's room.<p>

Brittany squinted at the dark sheets, bunched over one shoulder and under her arm, and shuffled her elbows up underneath her to peer into the room. It was early—before sunrise, from the soft gloom—and she spied the dark outline of the coats on the rack to her left; the point of an axe, poking along the edge of the weapons chest; one glowing line from the edge of Santana's phone screen, face-down on the table and charging.

No one beside her.

Brittany dragged her right wrist across her eyes—wincing when her arm reminded her of its still-tender wound, barely healed even after several hours' rest—and breathed out in relief when she realized Santana was sitting right in front of her, perched on the far windowsill and staring outside. She faced Brittany: the toes of her right foot grazing the carpet, her left knee cocked against the sill with her arms crossed against it. A cigarette pressed between her lips.

Her foot swung gently over the floor. Brittany could almost hear her skin against the carpeting; her cotton shirt brushing the lace stretched over her hip.

Brittany reached out to flip the phone over and check the time—just after 5:00, and three unopened texts from _Puckerman_—and she felt Santana's eyes slide to her at the _clack_ of the plastic against the wooden table. She sat up properly and looked at the tornado as she rubbed sleep from her eyes with her good hand.

Santana regarded her silently. She tucked her right arm and took the cigarette from her mouth. Twisted her neck just enough to aim the smoke out the open window.

Quiet. Stillness. Brittany could feel the breeze, sifting in through the window and touring the room. It brushed the soft shirt she'd borrowed. She realized she'd worn her bra to bed; she could feel it, twisted along her ribcage and canted too far to the left.

She dropped her eyes from Santana and adjusted it. Santana finally cleared her throat, too softly—like she'd done it by accident. "How's your arm?" she asked, rough from sleep or smoke or both.

Dry lips. Brittany sucked them between her teeth and shrugged. "Still hurts," she said. Rawness still stretched deep into her flesh, like fingers gripping way too hard. Normally, it'd be a surface wound by now, after sleeping.

It felt more and more like a punishment. Like her slow-shrinking bruise.

"I'm sorry." Brittany looked up to see Santana looking down. At her lap. At the cigarette balanced between her fingers.

"It's not your fault," Brittany said, frowning, tasting the echo of the night's fallout. Her eyes flicked to the door, shut against Santana's mother sleeping down the hall.

Her mouth tasted terrible. She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and tried to scrape the flavor off on her teeth.

Santana just shrugged, taking a long, long drag of the cigarette and holding the breath with closed eyes. The smoke seeped out of her, like a balloon slowly emptying. "I can't believe those fuckers haven't figured out what's going on."

It sounded strangely gentle. Brittany bit at her tongue again—catching the inside of her cheek, too—and looked at the door again. Back down at her hands, coiled in her lap. She realized she'd moved to caress the gash. Trace the strips holding her skin together.

"Britt." Brittany looked up into dark eyes: thick, even across the room. Santana's voice was rough and tender. "You look upset. ¿Qué pasa?"

Soft and pretty, like expensive fabric. Like Santana's dark hair, in the air of the cemetery or threaded through her fingers in the locker room when she twisted it into a ponytail.

Brittany glanced at the door. Again. She swallowed—like her body knew to be nervous—and blurted, quietly, "What's a _bujarra_?"

Nothing. When she dared look up at Santana's face, she had frozen. Cigarette halfway to her lips. Her hair still shifted in the wind; Brittany watched—felt her expression collapsing into guilt—and realized Santana was shaking.

With sudden, jerky movements, Santana glared aside out the window and reached outside it to flick the ash off the cigarette. "A fucking queer is what it is," she spat with venom. She held the cigarette more urgently—between her thumb and index finger, like a pen, instead of splayed like a movie star in a photo shoot—and sucked smoke like it would purge the taste of the sentence on her tongue. She pushed the smoke out through her nose and took a second drag so quick her shoulders convulsed, once, in a silent choke.

Brittany felt her blood running cold and she tugged the sheets up over her arms. For her cold body, her face felt hot. "Oh," she finally mumbled, like it would make Santana stop frowning out the window and squeezing the cigarette like she was about to crush it into halves.

Nothing. More long drags off the cigarette. Brittany watched it glow at the end. Burning back toward the filter.

"Is this the part where I leave before she wakes up?" asked Brittany in her smallest voice, glancing at her jeans crumpled on the floor and seeing a flash of them, months ago, on Jake's shag carpet. She reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear and shoulder. She wished it had tangled overnight, so she could yank the knots out.

"No, that's not…" Brittany looked up and Santana's face had softened. Gentle and contrite. Santana looked down again—two seconds of eye contact must've been too much—and stubbed out the cigarette on the windowsill before dropping it out onto the roof. Her face flickered, like she was choosing her words; she seemed to change her mind because she sighed before she said, with a defeated shrug, "She won't be up for a few hours, anyway."

Brittany swallowed and turned away, swinging her legs off the bed and bending to retrieve her jeans. "I should go, anyway," she said, as the morning taste crept back into her mouth. She wriggled out of Santana's shorts—cheeks still burning hot—and pulled the jeans up to her bent knees at the edge of the mattress.

"No, Brittany, I didn't mean—" Brittany turned her head and caught Santana frozen again, halfway off the ledge, hand halfway raised toward Brittany. Brittany eyed it as Santana's fingers slowly curled away from her; her arm dropped back to her side as she stood upright. Dark eyes danced around the room, lighting on Brittany intermittently. "It's okay," Santana pleaded while Brittany stood up to fasten her pants.

She was staring at the letters on her chest—Fordham Middle School, still green and faded—when Santana's hand on her shoulder made her jump.

Those eyes, sad and soft. "Slow down. We have time," she said, like she meant something else.

"I need to get my stuff from my house." The words fell flat. Blank, like her expression. Brittany looked away—Santana's conflicted, honest look felt too warm, like Brittany's face, flushed and embarrassed—and reached under the shirt collar to untwist her bra strap.

"Okay," said Santana, like an apology.

Brittany looked at her and softened. Santana's warm hand on her shoulder lay centimeters from hers, under the shirt. She pulled her hand out and hung it in her jean pocket by the thumb.

She sighed, about to say something, when her eyes snagged on the weapons cabinet again. She frowned at it. "Wait," she began, glancing curiously at Santana. "Your mom knows about…?"

Santana followed Brittany's eyes back to the trunk and drew away. She walked to her closet and opened the door as she spoke: "Don't worry about it."

Brittany eyed the exposed stakes and crosses with greater interest. She glanced at Santana's shoulders, tense under the thin shirt as she took down her Cheerios skirt and pulled it up her legs. "I'm not worried, I just—"

"Don't worry about my mother." Her tone was low and dark; her fingers zipped the skirt with the cool efficiency of slaying or training.

The dim room was growing lighter, like a light bulb warming up: A glance at the open window revealed the first streaks of sun across the sky. Santana was pulling on a sports bra while her skin and skirt soaked up color from the light.

Brittany looked away again. Santana stayed quiet, so she crossed to the trunk and crouched. The thick _clank_ of a wooden stake on the wood of a cross drew Santana's attention and she snapped, defensively, "What, never seen a cross before?"

"Just snooping," murmured Brittany, pouting at Santana. The honesty worked almost instantly: Santana's face smoothed like a shirt beneath a hot iron.

"What for?" muttered hurricane. She sounded almost—bashful. She closed the hidden zipper of her Cheerios top and flattened the tailored panels.

Brittany shrugged, straightening her toes and settling onto her shins like a nest. Under the pile of stakes, the heavy iron axe, two thick crosses, and an army flask of what had to be holy water, she hesitated and pulled a small dagger with a leather sheath from its place, nestled between the barrel of a tranquilizer rifle and the smooth wooden side of the box.

Soft footsteps behind her tracked to the bed, and Santana's backpack zipper pulls dinged lightly over the sigh of the weight hitting the mattress. Brittany quietly unsnapped the leather cover and pulled the dagger out while Santana adjusted her texts and notebooks in her bag.

The blade was polished, all smooth silver and liquid-sharp edges. The brightest thing in the room. The dark wooden handle snuck out under the tight, worn-out fabric wrapped around as a grip. The butt of the handle fit snug against the heel of Brittany's hand.

She glanced over her shoulder. Santana was closing her backpack with sure fingers.

Brittany slipped the cover back over the knife and closed it with a _snap _and a nervous grimace.

"What're you doing?"

"Snooping," Brittany repeated, replacing the knife where it had hidden. She touched the barrel of the rifle with hesitant hands and heard Santana cross the room.

She looked up under the weight of Santana's gaze. Santana stared back, annoyed and expectant. "You've got a gun in here," said Brittany blankly.

Those eyes moved slowly from Brittany's face to the rifle and back. Santana's jaw shifted. Thoughtful. She licked her lips—and leaned over to touch the lid of the trunk. She looked pointedly at Brittany's hand, poised on the weapon. "We should go pick up your stuff."

Brittany bit her lip. Pulled her hand away.

Santana shut the lid of the trunk and led her to the door.

* * *

><p>The drive seemed longer in the soft, shadowy dawn and their shared silence. One cross-country runner jogged purposefully down the sidewalk; once he turned a corner, they saw no one else.<p>

When Santana rolled into the driveway, she parked and hesitated. She kept her eyes carefully—awkwardly—away from Brittany's as she murmured, "If you wanna go grab your stuff and change, I'll just wait."

Brittany bit her lip and allotted five more full, thick seconds for Santana to look up, but she didn't. Brittany slipped out, clicked the car door shut quietly, and crept into the too-early stillness of her house.

Upstairs, she poked her head into her sister's and parents' rooms, just to watch them sleeping. As she snuck into her room, she wondered what her parents would say if she kept her weapons in an open-mouthed bin, or her sister's old toybox.

She swapped her clothes for her Cheerios uniform, noting with mild annoyance that she'd need to shave her legs in the tiny shower cubicles at the school after practice. She scraped the papers off her desktop and into the seat of her right hand and froze when she noticed the blank space at the last problem.

Stunned, she reread it quickly and scanned her work, but the double take didn't disprove her, so she grabbed her pencil and scribbled the answer and its units at the bottom of the page. She crossed to her backpack and shoved everything haphazardly inside. As she yanked the zipper shut, she noticed Santana's shirt, tossed automatically into her hamper; she allowed herself a moment of debate as she slipped her bag over one shoulder, but ultimately decided that washing it might be friendly.

Besides—it probably still held that near-sweet smell: the one Brittany already sensed slipping off her skin, a melancholy ether, uncapturable.

She backed out of the room and skipped half the stairs, her cheer shoes brushing gentle and silent against the hard wood. The still air hung about the foyer and clinging to her front porch made her feel strangely awake, despite such little sleep.

Santana's eyes caught hers as she settled into the seat, dark and too heavy. "Ready," she said, quiet to match the quiet of the car, and Santana jerked her key clockwise and backed them out toward the school.

As the car curved back along the curb, Brittany caught sight of three cigarette butts, crushed against her driveway.


	23. Changing Tide

Abject apologies. Way slower updates until school's out.

* * *

><p>For the first hour of practice, from 5 to 6, Santana's pompoms moved like boxing gloves, almost clipping a Cheerio named Samantha and earning a sharp scolding from Coach Sue. Brittany was so busy keeping an eye on her that her timing almost toppled the pyramid.<p>

"Shut it down," Coach yelled through the bullhorn. "I can smell the putrid adolescent failure from here, and it will take at least forty minutes for you to scrape it off. Sandpaper will be provided to you in the locker rooms, and I recommend you make use of it."

Brittany trotted over to Santana, catching her by surprise with a hand on her shoulder, and Brittany barely blocked Santana's left hand as it swooped up to swat her away. Brittany's mouth dropped open to say something right when Coach Sue's bullhorn screeched again: "Pierce, over here. Today, please."

Before Brittany even turned back, Santana walked out from under her hand, heading toward the locker rooms with tense shoulders and a glare for anybody in her path. Brittany bit her lips and jogged over to Coach Sue. "What's—"

Coach propped her elbow on her hip and held the bullhorn loosely in her fingers. "Now, you're not normally a klutz, Bethany—"

"—I'm not Bethany—"

"—so I haven't had to give you this particular talk, but I notice you've sustained what appears to be a violent and possibly Nationals-impairing injury, and so I am obligated to inform you that as William McKinley High School Cheerios property, you are liable for damages if your sub-par physical condition in any way affects our competitive performance."

Brittany frowned. "I'm property, but I'm liable for damages?"

"I don't expect you to understand," Coach Sue dismissed with a wave of the bullhorn, "but as I said, I'm obligated to inform you by certain fascist fiduciary clauses of the Ohio state constitution." She raked her eyes over Brittany's wounded arm with disinterest. "Not that I particularly care, but what on earth did you fall on, anyway?"

The cut looked mostly like it had when she'd awakened: red and angry under the steri-strips. "I was working on my bike with my dad," Brittany mumbled, thinking of the way the clutch popped the last time she'd ridden, and how she'd been meaning to look at it all week, before—well, before Karofsky.

"You sacrificed full range of motion in your wrist for quality time with your ten-speed?" Coach asked icily. One eyebrow arched high on her forehead.

Brittany shook her head. "No, my motorbike."

"Oh." Coach reared back and folded her arms. She regarded Brittany seriously. "Well, interesting. You remind me of a young Sue Sylvester—although, obviously, uglier and dumber than I." Brittany kept her face blank. "Still—like I said, don't impair your physical capabilities, or you'll find yourself off the squad," Coach warned with a wave of dismissal.

Brittany picked at one of the strips as she jogged back across the field to the locker rooms.

* * *

><p>Brittany spent all morning trying to catch up to Santana. Santana spent all morning turning away to face her locker or her textbook or Puck.<p>

In math, Brittany went to put her carefully stapled homework on the top of the stack and saw Matt's name on the page beneath it. His problems had less work.

She squinted. The bottom two answers were wrong.

"Come on, take your seat," said the teacher, ushering her to her seat.

Brittany felt strange and still, even as she passed Matt, eyeing her pointedly when she passed him. She slipped her bag off her shoulder, sank onto her chair, and wondered if this was the way it felt to be right.

* * *

><p>After lunch, when Puck disentangled himself from Santana to make his way to gym class, Santana stuttered long enough for Brittany to catch up. "Hey," Brittany said, smiling gently, a bit playful. "Carry your books to class?"<p>

The joke backfired. Santana's head whipped around like she'd heard gunshots. "We don't have class together," she snapped.

Before Brittany could answer, they reached an intersection. Santana peeled away, left, toward her next class.

Brittany chewed the inside of her cheek and turned right.

* * *

><p>Not two minutes after the last bell, Brittany heard shouting up the hall and forced her way through the crowd.<p>

"Don't you ever fucking say that again!" Santana's voice echoed, loud, and Brittany broke into the open circle to see Quinn two steps ahead, trying to restrain Santana by the waist. "I will _end _you!" Matt and a few other football players stood by the lockers, looking more confused and entertained than afraid.

Brittany's blood ran cold. The boys nudged each other, snickering foolishly at the idea of Santana taking them on. The idea of a girl as a threat.

"Say what?" Matt was mocking, holding his hands out: _bring it_. "It's true! Everybody knows she's—"

Santana socked him in the face so hard his head spun. It'd barely taken a second for her to overpower Quinn and cross the space.

"Santana!" Brittany yelled, darting after her and taking her by the waist and dragging her back toward Quinn.

Santana writhed under her arms. Brittany locked her hands and wrists over Santana's rolling muscles. "Calm down!" Brittany said, right into Santana's ear.

"No," Santana snapped. She twisted around to glare at Quinn because her hair blocked Brittany from sight. "No voy a—"

"Do what she says," Matt jeered, cradling his face with a sullen glare. "You sluts gotta stick together, anyway."

Another jolt. Santana dragged Brittany forward; Brittany dug her sneakers into the linoleum and Quinn stepped forward, her finger in Matt's face. "You better back off if you know what's good for you," Quinn warned. Either her expression or her Cheerios power made the boys flutter nervously.

"Let it go," Brittany whispered, so close she felt her breath bounce back.

"Fuck no," Santana spat. She struggled again. "He called you—"

"What the hell is going on here?" Beiste burst into the circle and the surrounding students immediately started to shuffle away. Beiste glared at them widely, speared Santana and Brittany with a hard, sharp look, and turned to where Quinn stood uncertainly by the group of boys.

"She just went _loco_," Matt joked halfheartedly. He made a point to glare at Brittany; she tightened her grip on Santana in reflex, right when Santana jerked again.

She let out a vicious spike of Spanish, and Matt stuck his tongue out in response.

"Enough!" Beiste's arms windmilled and she shooed the boys away. They trudged down the hallway, sending angry and lecherous glances over their shoulders. Brittany shivered and relaxed her arms.

Santana squirmed out from under Brittany's touch and wrapped her arms around herself, half a foot away. "What the hell is going on?" demanded Beiste. She shot a nervous look at Quinn, still hovering nearby.

"I didn't see," Brittany blurted when no one else spoke. Santana and Quinn glanced at her, then each other, then the floor.

Quinn cleared her throat. "Matt said something, and…" She looked at Santana for a beat and then gestured at her, clearly reluctant to incriminate her.

With a dark scowl, Santana rolled her shoulders and kept staring at Quinn as she answered, "He said some shit about Brittany. I wasn't gonna let him—"

Her eyes blew wider and her words cut out. She turned to Brittany first and then Beiste. Brittany felt her insides go cold; there weren't a lot of things Matt would have to say about her, which meant he was probably talking about—

"What did he say?" asked Beiste, at once innocent and forceful, the way only adults could be.

Santana's dark eyes flashed and Brittany stuttered to stop her: "N-nothing, he was just—"

Everyone turned toward her. Brittany paused to swallow her nerves. "I went over for math help," she tried again, "and he was kind of a jerk to me, and I think he thought I was a jerk back."

The way Santana looked at her, sad and angry and upset and curious, made it clear that Matt had said something fairly explicit about what happened. Brittany wet her lips.

"It was pretty fucked up, I swear," Santana said unevenly. She turned back to Beiste, and her unique flavor of earnest profanity softened Beiste's expression somewhat.

"That true, Miss Fabray?" Beiste asked, looking at Quinn instead.

Quinn shrugged. She looked uncomfortable.

The silence hung ominously. Santana stared resolutely at the floor as everyone gradually looked back at her.

"Fine," Beiste finally sighed. "You three better get out of here before—"

"I'm here!" panted Mr. Schuester. "I'm here, what'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Beiste said, smiling a little and clapping him on the shoulder. "Just a little scuffle with one of my football guys. I've got it figured out."

He looked at her with near disappointment. Brittany's face scrunched in confusion, and she noticed Santana's did, too. Mr. Schuester asked, almost whining, "Are you sure?"

"Sure as your footing in a famine," Beiste soothed, touching his shoulder again and guiding him back around. She glanced meaningfully at Santana and Brittany, mouthing _We'll talk later_, and steered him back toward his classroom. "I was meaning to talk to you…"

Their voices faded when they turned a corner. Santana stared at the linoleum, then down the hallway in front of her; Quinn met Brittany's eyes behind Santana.

Eventually, Quinn folded her arms and said, "We have Cheerios."

"I fucking know we have Cheerios," Santana snapped. Her arms dropped and she half-turned. Brittany snagged her gaze accidentally, and Santana looked wild and flared, like an animal one obstacle away from its next meal.

Santana brushed hurriedly past Brittany and muttered, "I'll see you on the field."

Brittany bit her lips between her teeth and watched Santana go. She could feel Quinn looking at her, even before she turned back around. They stood still for another moment before Brittany ventured, "Is that really what happened?"

With a heavy sigh, Quinn looked at the lockers and shrugged. "I don't know. Kind of. I showed up late."

"At least you stopped her," Brittany offered uncertainly.

Quinn turned to her, too sharp and critical. Suspicious. Brittany froze. "Barely," Quinn drawled, careful-casual. "You didn't have any trouble, though."

Slayer strength. Santana'd thrown Quinn off like an unzipped jacket. "Well, I mean, I'm bigger than you guys," Brittany suggested vaguely. She tried to keep her eyes on Quinn instead of wandering down and to the side.

Quinn stared. Not buying it. Brittany felt her ears reddening, and she was about to clarify with—something—when Quinn shrugged it off suddenly. "Whatever."

Quinn brushed past. Brittany blinked, shell-shocked, and turned to watch her walk out toward the field. "Better hurry," Quinn called over her shoulder. "Coach hates tardies, you know."

* * *

><p>Practice turned into another aggression outlet for Santana, and they didn't speak until Brittany caught up to her in the locker room. Santana stripped off her uniform top to reveal a ribbed tank underneath.<p>

"What's wrong?" Brittany asked, gesturing to the shirt—an uncharacteristic addition.

Santana looked at her with the angry, defensive expression she aimed at everyone else. Brittany gulped, caught off-guard, and Santana said, "It's just fucking cold out, okay?"

Brittany stuttered. Quinn skirted around them to her locker. "Yeah, sorry," Brittany murmured.

"Whatever," Santana said, more defeated than angry now. She looked into her locker almost sadly. "Hey, can you, um"—she glanced at Quinn, who raised an eyebrow—"take care of that thing later?"

"That thing…?" Brittany tilted her head. Quinn kept looking on curiously.

Santana blushed under their attention. "It's just, I can't tonight. I'm meeting Puck."

Oh. Patrolling.

Puck.

Brittany frowned. Santana turned back to her, a weird combination of steely expression and pleading eyes, and Brittany softened without meaning to. "Sure," she said, almost tenderly. "I can do it."

"Thanks." Santana's eyes, wide and dark, dropped back into the depths of her locker. She was blushing.

"You two are so weird," Quinn snorted.

Brittany stuck out her tongue. Nobody saw.

* * *

><p>In the parking lot, Santana stopped suddenly, a few feet from her car. "Shit."<p>

"What?" Brittany spun, carefully keeping distance between them.

"Your arm," said Santana, eyeing the train track steri-strips, brow crinkled.

Brittany held her forearm up like she'd forgotten it. She had. Looking at it, she saw it had healed a little during the day, though one strip was peeling off from the sweat and motion of Cheerios practice. "What about it?" she asked, lowering it slightly to look back up at Santana.

"You shouldn't patrol," she said quietly, shaking her head.

"I can do it." Brittany shrugged. It barely hurt; why would it be a problem? "Besides, you have…" She trailed off and gestured. After their night together, however botched—she remembered Santana's hands, hot on her skin, just as vividly as the shock and fear of Santana's mother in the doorway—Brittany couldn't pull Puck's name into her throat.

It tasted bad enough in her mind.

"No, really," Santana was pushing. She stepped closer, her free hand reaching instinctively for Brittany's, but froze halfway. Her fingers faltered in the air like a dry leaf in the breeze. "I just—" She hooked it in her backpack strap awkwardly and looked aside. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me," she muttered, trying to cover the way her voice hitched and scratched.

Brittany bit her lip. "No, you have…" She steeled herself. Santana turned back toward her, those dark eyes soft and worried, but—but—

"You're meeting Puck," Brittany said, shrugging. Even if—

There are consequences.

Santana's shoulders sagged, then tightened. "I don't have to—"

"But you want to?"

A sideways glance; a twitch; that black nail polish flicking nervously against the plastic adjusters on her backpack straps. Santana looked down at her feet.

"Come on," Brittany said softly. "I need to get home for dinner." She turned back toward the car, dejected, and waited for Santana to unlock the door or tell her different.

After a long pause, Santana unlocked the doors. Brittany dropped into the passenger seat and scratched the steri-strips where they itched.

* * *

><p>Halfway to Brittany's house, Santana broke the silence: "We need a code word."<p>

Brittany glanced at her, unimpressed and still hurting at the thought of Santana at Puck's place. "I don't see what the Soviets have to do with anything," she deadpanned, her heart not in it.

"No—for patrolling."

"Oh." Brittany turned to look out the window. The houses were beginning to look familiar. "Like what?"

Santana squirmed in the driver's seat; Brittany caught the blur in the corner of her eye. "I dunno, Spanish homework or something."

"What if we actually need to do the Spanish homework?"

"We always do the Spanish homework."

Brittany raised an eyebrow and reproached, "Not always. I always ask."

That worked. Santana faltered, her hands wringing the wheel anxiously. "Well, we can start doing it during our free period?"

Brittany scoffed. Tired of pulling punches. "Fine. If I even see you."

For once, Santana didn't rise to the bait. She pressed harder on the gas pedal. "You'll see me," she entreated, almost gently.

When Brittany didn't answer, Santana didn't add anything. They passed the last few blocks in silence until Santana pulled into Brittany's driveway. She idled with the doors locked and just as she shifted into Park and began to speak, Brittany turned and asked with narrowed eyes, "You're really going to Puck's?"

Santana froze, mouth half-open. Brittany imagined the dry taste inside her mouth.

Her lips.

No.

"I… yeah," Santana managed, strangled, forced. "But—" She reached out.

"Fine," Brittany said, opening the door and slipping out of her seat, away from Santana's outstretched hand. "I'll handle patrolling. See you in the morning."

She shut the door before Santana could say anything.

Brittany stalked off without looking back. She only heard the car back away when she was fitting her key into the front door, a full thirty seconds later.

* * *

><p>The crisp dark of the cemetery felt nice, like the snap of a really fresh carrot or the tight stretch of scrubbed skin. Brittany flexed her arms in the darkness and ducked into a quick cartwheel on the sidewalk.<p>

The absence of searing pain in her forearm felt reassuring. Her ribs had mysteriously stopped protesting after a few monstrous helpings of pot roast at dinner.

For the first time in days, Brittany almost felt ready to walk around alone at night.

She tossed her bag carelessly over the fence and climbed it, taking care to avoid touching her injured arm to the iron spokes. The bag felt light and heavy all at once as she walked through the graveyard, digging her hand in at the top to get a stake out. She tucked the stake in her pocket and cinched the drawstrings.

The moonlight dipped the smooth stones and mausoleum in eerie silver light. Brittany flicked her ponytail back and forth, twice like a pendulum, and slung the bag crosswise over her shoulders.

The stake fit perfectly in her palm.

Fuck Santana. She could do it alone.


	24. Strangeness & Charm

patience, grasshoppers. i'm gettin old and slow but i'm not done with this story yet.

* * *

><p>After days of uncertainty, Brittany found herself strangely comforted to have blood on her hands again. The two vampires she faced turned to dust with bloody noses and expressions of unmasked surprise; Brittany whistled softly on the way home, only catching herself when a dog perked up curiously behind a chain-link fence.<p>

Once she'd snuck back into her house via the basement window and scrubbed her skin clean, she crept up the stairs on tiptoe. She peeked into Katie's room—sound asleep; it was almost 1—and saw the lump in her bed rise and fall. Brittany had made it to her own bedroom, and half out of her clothes, when her gaze caught on the window, wondering if Santana was done with Puck.

Brittany gulped at the sour taste in her mouth. As she crawled into bed, still careful with her injured arm, she noted with satisfaction that her ribs barely ached even after doing gymnastics at the cemetery. It was all she had to go on, for tonight, but her determination to fixate on it did nothing to bar Santana and Puck from her dreams.

* * *

><p>Patiently, repeatedly, Brittany decided not to ask about Puck. She reminded herself again as she hovered at the front door, waiting for the dull headlights of Santana's car.<p>

Despite her effort, as Brittany climbed into the car, her first words were, "How was Puck's?"

As she'd feared, it rang bitter in the quiet. Santana looked around—left, out the window; ahead, out the windshield; down, at her hands—and wet her lips. "Fine. How was patrolling?" She shifted into reverse and glanced at Brittany. "Or, 'Spanish homework'?" she amended, wagging her eyebrows.

The joke felt forced. "It was okay," Brittany answered honestly. "Couple of bumpies, no lobsters."

"And your arm?" Santana spared a worried glance as she turned the wheel.

"Feels a lot better." Brittany looked down at it, like it would prove her wrong. She'd woken to remarkable healing—almost the rate she'd gotten used to, as a Slayer. Much faster than nature.

Santana's hand moved toward her. "Let me see," she instructed, flicking her eyes between the empty road and the console between them. Brittany twisted to offer her arm; Santana eyed it carefully and raised her brows. "Wow, looks way better. You healing again?"

"I guess."

"What about your ribs, are they—?" Santana reached toward Brittany's side and immediately yanked her hand back.

After a moment of Santana gripping the wheel too hard, Brittany cracked her knuckles against her knee and shrugged. "They feel better, I guess. So are you coming with tonight?"

Santana froze, mouth half-open, and slowly bit her lips. "Maybe."

Brittany stared at her steadily. "Puck again?"

"Don't," Santana said, her voice strange and light.

"Don't what?" Brittany asked, peering closely at her expression.

As if feeling her eyes, Santana glanced at her and sighed and looked back at the road. They were near the school, now. "Don't pull that guilt shit on me. I wants to get my mack on, and I'm not gonna apologize for it, to you or Fabrat or anybody."

"That's not what I'm saying," Brittany said quietly, restraining her exhaustion. She turned to the window as they entered the parking lot.

Santana didn't ask what she'd really meant.

* * *

><p>At school, Santana disappeared until their class together. Even then, Santana propped her elbow on the desk to shield her face.<p>

Intermittently, Brittany caught Santana looking at her, her face clear and strange. Each time, Santana dropped her eyes to her desk and scratched her ear or neck or tightened her ponytail. Each time, Brittany twisted her pen's pom-pom and squinted back at the blackboard.

When the bell rang, Santana stood abruptly, like she'd been waiting for it instead of staring blankly at her textbook cover. "Spanish?" she asked Brittany without looking at her.

"Yeah," Brittany said, caught off guard. Santana had her things together before Brittany finished ramming her books into her backpack; she jogged after Santana into the hallway as she tugged the zippers closed.

"Hey, wait up," Brittany said once she matched pace. Santana glanced at her—wide-eyed, for an instant—and back ahead of them. She touched the hair above her ear, like she'd forgotten it was pulled back, then hooked her thumbs uselessly in her backpack straps.

No response.

"Did you start the worksheet yet?" Brittany asked, letting Santana guide them toward the library.

"No," Santana said. Brittany held the door open and Santana passed through with stuttered steps. "It won't take long, I think."

Inside, Brittany turned toward the tables in the back, but Santana dropped her bag on a table near the cushioned chairs in the middle. The area's single occupant, a boy with thin arms and thick acne, stammered apologies and left with his papers cradled awkwardly in his hands.

Santana flopped into the vacated chair and began unpacking her bag to find her Spanish folder and pens. Brittany stood, watching the freshman make his way to the back of the library, and murmured, "He could've sat with us."

"He clearly didn't want to. Fuck 'im."

Brittany frowned down at Santana; the librarian pointed and shushed them from afar; Santana ignored both. "Sit down," Santana instructed, keeping her voice quieter.

Hesitantly—and eyeing the librarian—Brittany sank into the chair beside Santana and dragged her bag up between her shins. Santana was already scribbling on the first line when Brittany liberated the worksheet.

Brittany considered the instructions briefly. It sounded familiar; she glanced at Santana's sheet to verify she wasn't misinterpreting, but Santana's cramped handwriting was hard to read sideways from afar. To see, Brittany craned her neck, and Santana looked up sharply.

"Oh—" Santana pursed her lips and tilted the page, belatedly helpful. "See, he wants us to just conjugate the verbs into—"

"I see," Brittany cut her off. Santana blinked at her—admittedly, she'd been a bit curt—and Brittany's guilt warmed her cheeks as she added, "That's what I thought, I just…"

She shrugged. Santana watched her for another long moment; Brittany clicked her pen and carefully scrawled the first words. Eventually, Santana resettled in her seat and swept through the rest of the questions.

Brittany saw Santana finish in the corner of her eye, when Brittany had finished the first three questions. Santana stayed frozen, though, and by the time Brittany hit the halfway point, she could feel Santana's gaze soaking into her skin and hair.

"What?" Brittany asked. Days before, the feeling would have brought Brittany's heart to her throat, nervous and excited; today, she felt only nerves, and the nagging reminder that Santana's interest didn't mean what she'd thought.

Still, when Brittany glanced up and caught her staring, Santana looked exactly like she had that night in the cemetery: stunned and worshipful, like Mary seeing an angel.

Then, like the Hawthorne effect, the look withered under Brittany's eyes; Santana tipped her head down to the table and scraped her nail absently against an ink smudge. Brittany opened her mouth and began several different questions, but settled on, "What else do you have to work on?"

Santana still stared at her nail and the sheet and the table, apparently deep in thought. "I… Reading, I think," she muttered.

"Oh." Brittany nodded and went back to her worksheet. She imagined Santana scrolling through her list of excuses like contacts in her phone. Would she excuse herself to meet a teacher? To go to the cafeteria? Her locker? To meet Puck?

Brittany's lips twisted, and she swallowed her bitterness to focus on the last few questions. Once she'd touched pen to paper, however, she noticed that Santana hadn't moved.

A glance confirmed it: Santana sat frozen in her chair. Maybe her excuses turned up _404 Error_.

Brittany hurried through the last verb sets and dropped her pen. The _snak _of it against the table snapped Santana from her stupor.

"You were right," Brittany said, like she hadn't noticed. Santana furrowed her brow and Brittany's lips curled into a tiny, encouraging smile. "It didn't take long at all."

Unwittingly, Brittany broke Santana's stone shell. "Right," Santana mumbled, "so, I've gotta… but I'll see you at Cheerios, okay?"

Brittany pouted, cloaking her suspicion with confusion. "Where are you going?" she asked, despite the temptation to ask something else.

"I've gotta go," Santana said uneasily. She'd already shoved everything in her bag. She hovered over Brittany, suddenly uncertain.

"Lunch?" Brittany asked. She barely mustered the energy to sound hopeful.

"Yeah, 'course, Britt," Santana brushed off. Brittany's doubt showed on her face; Santana bit her lip and lifted one shoulder. "Really. I'll see you then."

Santana reached out and wavered, her fingers just past Brittany's bubble of personal space. Santana touched Brittany's shoulder lightly, a stiff-fingered almost-push, then traced up to Brittany's chin. Brittany could feel Santana trembling as her chin tilted up.

"Put a smile on," Santana said, trying to sound cocky and casual. Her flickering smile betrayed the effort.

Without further comment, Santana stalked out of the library.

Brittany sighed, fell back into the armchair, and knocked her head on the far back.

* * *

><p>En route to the lunchroom, Brittany startled to find Holly sidling up beside her, close enough to lean her elbow on Brittany's shoulder. "Hey, sweet cheeks," Holly said, "can you grab Miss Lopez and come see me in my office? You can bring your lunches."<p>

Watcher business. Brittany nodded and Holly was gone before Brittany could reply.

As usual, Santana was already in the cafeteria when Brittany got there, but she was sitting with two trays. Brittany frowned—it looked strangely like Santana'd bought her lunch, too—and her frown became a scowl when she spotted Puck on Santana's other side, his hand casually leaning on her thigh. Quinn sat across from him, glaring pointedly at her salad.

"Santana," Brittany said, tired of tiptoeing. Santana looked up in surprise and Brittany jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. "Ms. Holliday wants to see us."

Santana made a show of scoffing and rolling her eyes—timed simultaneously with her swatting Puck's hand out of her lap—and climbed off the bench. Once she'd turned away from Puck and Quinn, her expression softened noticeably, and she moved the two lunches onto a single tray with obvious trepidation.

Even with everything else, Brittany felt her resolve weaken at the glimpse of Santana's naked uncertainty. Brittany nodded once and Santana gripped the tray with renewed purpose and confidence.

"Hey, Brittany," Puck was saying, grinning at her lazily. Quinn was glaring daggers at him.

"Hi. Come on, Santana."

* * *

><p>Holly met them outside her office. "We're going to Shannon's," she explained as she locked the door. "Mine's too small."<p>

"Oh. Okay."

Holly simpered at them and led them down the hall. She rapped Beiste's door twice quickly and then once, after a beat; Beiste opened it and ushered them inside.

Santana placed the lunch tray awkwardly on a file cabinet. Brittany reached up and picked a fry off Santana's side and ignored Santana's glance.

"We wanted you guys to know what we're doing to find out what's going on," Beiste explained, twisting her hands in her lap.

"And what are you doing?" Santana asked. She glanced at the tray—almost at her eye-level—and bit her lip.

Holly perched against Beiste's desk. "Actually, we wanted to get your help on this. We think the football-macho-weirdness is probably a spell, cast by somebody in the school."

Santana gave in to temptation and snuck two fries from the basket. "A spell, huh? From who?" Santana pressed, eating the fries in two bites and sucking the salt from her fingertips.

"We're not sure," Beiste admitted.

"But it might be somebody you know," Holly added. "It might not be—I mean, it tends to be more soulful, emo, artsy types that dabble in the black arts—but you're in a way better position to figure it out than the two of us are." Holly offered a bright smile.

Brittany glanced at Santana; Santana stared thoughtfully at Holly and wiped her fingers on her skirt. "So, what, you want us to go up to all the Cheerios and go, 'Hey, twinkletoes, way to fall on your ass at practice, and by the way, have you been doing any weird voodoo spells recently?'"

Her brutal tone barely elicited reactions: Beiste pursed her lips and shifted in her chair, and Holly sighed lightly and shrugged. "Unfortunately, there's not exactly a super subtle way to do it," Holly agreed. "You're gonna have to put your noggin to use."

Santana's lip curled. Brittany tensed, but Santana just bit, "Do you have any _slightly _subtle suggestions? Isn't there some kind of pixie dust we can, like, dump on people or some shit? Like a pH test or something?"

"They can swab for gunpowder residue on CSI," Brittany added helpfully. "So, like, 'have you shot a wand lately' residue, or something."

Santana shot her the strangest, softest look. It faded the instant Holly spoke.

"No, sweet cheeks, 'fraid not. I know a guy I've got working on it, but for now, I just want you two to keep your eyes peeled for freaky suspicious activity." Holly illustrated _freaky _with jazz hands and a lilting ghost voice.

Santana snorted. Unimpressed. Brittany bit her lips and looked nervously at Holly, again bracing herself to hold Santana back if she started yelling.

Instead, Santana said icily, "Great, thanks, O Brilliant Watcher. Look out for suspicious activity. Thought that was our fucking job description."

"Santana," Beiste cut in, touching her chair's armrests and half-rising.

"I know, I know." Santana held her hands up in surrender. "Just saying…"

Brittany eyed Holly curiously. "Who would want to put a spell on the football team?"

Slowly, a smile spread across Holly's face and crinkled her eyes. "Now _that's _what I'm talkin' about," she crowed. "Detective work! Gitcha some, girl."

Brittany smiled in confusion. "That didn't answer my question…"

"No," Holly shrugged, "but that question will lead you _to _the answer, for all of us. Just follow your nose, sweet cheeks. Find the motive and you'll find our witch or warlock."

"Awesome," groused Santana. "First we got psycho jocks and now we have an evil witch. Peachy."

"Ease up on the gas," Holly jibed, raising an eyebrow. "We don't know what's going on, and hey, who knows, maybe what we've really got is a misguided witch who's bad at reading ingredients."

Brittany glanced at Santana, ready to ease her into agreement, but Santana just scowled and reached up to grab the lunch tray. "If that's everything," she said with a twisted mock-smile.

"I guess," Beiste stammered.

Holly looked Brittany in the eye and repeated, "Just keep an eye out." Brittany nodded slowly and felt a draft from the door. Santana had already left.

* * *

><p>Again, Brittany found herself a little nervous walking to the choir room, but today she didn't have Santana as backup, either. Santana hadn't waited at their lockers like usual.<p>

Brittany slowed to a stop across the hall from the choir room and craned her neck to peer into the door's small window. She could make out Quinn and Finn, sitting together at the far corner, with Quinn clutching his arm and glaring around possessively; if she took a half-step forward, Brittany could see Rachel's hands where she gestured wildly at the piano player. Nothing else was visible from the hall.

Was that shadow Santana's hair?

No.

"Brittany."

She barely kept from jumping in surprise and turned her head to face Kurt. He was looking at her with amusement layered over the same serious, all-knowing expression he'd worn in the parking lot a week before.

"What?" Brittany asked finally, after he'd stared at her for what felt like a century.

Kurt studied her a moment longer and then broke into an innocent, casual grin. "Why are you just standing out here?"

Brittany kept her face blank. Her mind raced. "I thought I saw a nargle running down the hall," she deadpanned, hiding her nerves. She gestured vaguely toward the far hall, opposite the way she'd come. "I was trying to decide if I had time to chase it."

Again, Kurt eyed her thoughtfully. "Well, you don't have time now," he said, apparently choosing not to criticize her drivel or call her out on it. Or bring up whatever he'd been talking about in the parking lot.

Brittany tried to remember what he'd said. He smiled at her and said, "Practice started two minutes ago. You coming, or what?"

Before she could come up with a suitably daft answer, he was leading her through the door. Inside, she immediately caught sight of Santana, seated alone at the back and inspecting her nails. Santana's eyes flashed to Brittany's, but dropped away just as fast.

Clearly, everyone else was still too intimidated to sit beside her. Whatever had her avoiding Brittany all day seemed not to hold court in Glee, though; Santana barely looked up when Brittany plopped down next to her.

"There you are!" said Mr. Schuester with a wide grin, catching Kurt's eye as he chased Rachel back to her seat in the front row. "Alright, let's get started. Who wants to go first?"

Unsurprisingly, Rachel jolted to the edge of her chair and shoved her hand into the air hard enough to send a Cheerio into a fall. "Me! Me, me," she said, shrieking first and then whispering.

Mr. Schuester sighed heavily. "Who's your partner, Rachel?"

"Her right hand," Santana muttered beside Brittany. Brittany smiled hesitantly, but no one else seemed to hear.

Rachel cleared her throat. "Well, Mr. Schuester, I did make an effort to align my talents with someone who would appropriately complement my style and verve"—her head turned toward Finn, and whatever look she sent him earned her a withering grimace from Quinn—"but ultimately, I found that our current pool has yet to produce anyone who can really stand opposite my years of training."

Something made Brittany glance left. Sure enough, she'd heard Santana roll her eyes.

Brittany slumped more comfortably in the plastic chair and prepared for another class of zoning out. Since Santana's surprise phone call the week before, they hadn't stayed long enough to choose partners, and Brittany suspected Santana had little intention of going through with the assignment.

After Rachel's eternity of crooning, Kurt and Lexus paired up for a truly odd vocal combination. Quinn and Finn did something sappy. Brittany yawned and refocused on the pleats of her Cheerios skirt, ignoring entirely the last few kids to perform.

"Great job, everybody," Mr. Schuester proclaimed finally with several drawn-out claps.

"Aren't you forgetting somebody?" asked Kurt. Brittany blinked and looked in alarm as Kurt nodded toward her and Santana's corner.

Brittany jerked upright as Mr. Schuester turned to them. "Oh, of course." He offered a small, insincere smile. "Are you two performing together?"

"We're not performing," Santana snapped before Brittany could process his words—but not before Kurt seemed to process their implication. He grinned wickedly at Brittany; luckily, Santana didn't notice. She crossed her arms and pursed her lips, daring Mr. Schuester to question her.

He had the good sense to look nervous at the prospect. "It was an assignment, Santana." He touched his greased hair.

"I had a family emergency," she reminded him icily.

Mr. Schuester looked at Brittany expectantly. She felt her blood run cold. "I went to help her," she blurted, trying to remember what she'd done instead of the assignment.

Mr. Schuester sighed and shrugged. Brittany relaxed slightly and realized that, for once, Mr. Schuester's total disinterest and low expectations had done her a favor. "In that case, I want to talk about recruitment," Mr. Schuester said, undeterred. "We're still low on members, and I think…"

Brittany turned back to her Cheerio skirt. She folded one pleat in an accordion and then back. Mr. Schuester wanted someone to do outreach on the football team. A moronic idea if she'd ever heard one, especially—she glanced at Santana and caught a glimpse of worry—in light of the team's recent anger management problems.

"As for your assignment," Mr. Schuester drew out grandly with a pitiful drum-roll on the piano top, "I want you each to find a song that really defines where you are in your life right now. Something you really connect with." He grinned, overeager and enthusiastic as always. He glanced at Brittany and Santana and raised his eyebrows. "Make sure you come in with something, please."

Santana scoffed. Mr. Schuester had been about to look away, but the noise pulled him back. Santana raised her hand and asked drily, "Can we go now?"

Mr. Schuester froze, mouth open, and Santana took that to mean _yes_. She grabbed her bag and Brittany's arm before Mr. Schuester found his voice. "It's been a slice, sad-sacks," she called as she dragged Brittany out the door.

"God, I fucking hate them," she announced to the empty hallway once the door shut. She dropped Brittany's arm and pulled her backpack straps tight over her shoulders. "Fucking Glee. Fucking Quinn."

Brittany bit her lip. She thought about the instrumental music she'd been dancing to and lamented that Mr. Schuester probably required that they sing. "What song are you gonna do?" she asked.

"What?"

Brittany looked up and saw Santana staring at her sharply. "For the assignment," Brittany managed. "The song."

Santana sighed dramatically. "I don't care about the song, Brittany," she said, trying and failing to sound patient instead of annoyed.

"But what're you gonna do?" Brittany asked. She instantly regretted it when Santana's expression darkened.

"Fuck Glee," Santana spat. Brittany stayed quiet when Santana glared at the hall ahead of them and the lockers around them. They were nearing the doors to the parking lot when Santana cooled off enough to sigh. "I'll figure something out. Probably the morning of."

She sounded equal parts bitter at Glee and regretful at her harshness. Santana hesitated at the doors and touched Brittany's shoulder. "I'm s—"

Noise echoed down the hall as the other Glee kids spilled into the corridor. Santana's eyes snapped to them and then to the floor, and her hand flinched away from Brittany's skin. Her apology receded like waves lapping from the sand. "Let's go."

Quinn caught up to them halfway through the parking lot, sending a disparaging glance at Finn where he ambled behind. "Hey, what're you doing tonight?" she asked them hopefully.

Brittany and Santana eyed each other uncertainly. "Spanish homework," Brittany said.

"Oh," Quinn said. "Can I come?"

"Actually"—Santana's gaze skittered away from Brittany and back again—"I don't think I can tonight. Rain check?"

"Puck?" asked Brittany, flat and disappointed.

Santana blushed a little. The breeze riffled the loose hairs curling at her brow.

"If you finish the homework early, come by the Bronze and entertain me," Quinn entreated. "Finn wants to go, but…"

"You don't wanna go alone?" asked Santana, still looking away.

Brittany stared hard at Santana, but Santana didn't meet her eyes. "Yeah, we'll see," she murmured.

Quinn stayed quiet, watching them closely, and finally shrugged. "Whatever. Just, like, text me or whatever." She peeled away from them as soon as Finn caught up.

"Come on," Santana muttered, turning back to the car. She unlocked the doors. "I'll drive you home."


	25. Mousetrap

Halfway home, Santana began to say something, and Brittany cut her off by turning on the radio. Santana twisted her hands around the wheel against the beat of "Empire State of Mind" and didn't protest.

* * *

><p>Over dinner, Brittany's mother asked her about school, and Brittany chafed under her skeptical stare. "It's fine, really," Brittany repeated, passing the mashed potatoes to her sister and ducking her mother's gaze.<p>

After a pause—Brittany glanced up to find her parents eyeing each other warily—Brittany's father chose a roll from the basket and split it gently with his knife. "Brittany," he said tentatively.

"I think I've had enough," Brittany blurted, downing one last forkful of mashed potatoes before she stood. Her ears burned; two good days at school didn't amount to a turnaround, and discussing them would mean discussing the failures that preceded them.

"You've hardly touched your potatoes," her mother admonished, her tone hard.

Katie scowled. "Potatoes are gross."

"I'm full, and I wanna look at my bike tonight," Brittany said, despite the hunger lingering in her stomach. She collected her plate and went into the kitchen to set it beside the sink. The murmur of voices echoed from the dining room, but no one followed her, and Brittany took several more big bites before abandoning her plate on the counter.

* * *

><p>Her father found her in the garage. "Hey, sweetie," he called softly, at once soothing and worried. "Got everything you need?"<p>

It'd turned out that an adjustable wrench and a measuring tape were all the equipment she needed, so Brittany just shrugged. Her father loitered in the doorway.

Before he could try again, Brittany listened to his shoe scuff the concrete and asked as lightly as she could manage, "Don't you have to go to bed soon?"

"Yeah." His fingernail clicked against the doorknob. It was nearing sunset; by the time he got up to go to work, Brittany would be out _doing Spanish homework _in the graveyard. Brittany could sense him collecting his thoughts; biting his lip; preparing to try one more time—so she dropped the wrench to the concrete, where it rattled loudly and broke the spell. "Sleep tight, sweet pea," he said.

Then he cleared his throat and left.

* * *

><p>Brittany succumbed to spontaneity and rode her bike to the graveyard. She'd worn her helmet in case her mother checked the garage, but drove extra carefully to avoid getting pulled over without insurance documentation.<p>

It bordered on ironic, that she drove more recklessly without manmade armor. When only Slayer magic protected her.

She left her bike in the lot by the park, across the street from the graveyard, even though the engine noise had probably already sent the undead packing. She dropped her helmet just inside the fence and snapped a thick branch from one of the shrubs guarding the gate. As she walked deeper into the cemetery, she stripped it of smaller twigs and peeled off the bark at the end to form a shallow spike.

A noise from behind. Brittany whirled and jerked her leg outright, catching a shadowy oaf in the gut with combined momentum and supernatural strength. He staggered back into the moonlight: another football player. Brittany was on him before he could recover, letting her adrenalin cover for the stammered uncertainty in her mind.

Her arms whipped and wove like air currents. She caught the boy under the armpit with the blunt end of her makeshift stake; she smashed his knee hard enough to drop him to the ground. Her fear receded with her thoughts.

She moved like the wind. Caught him under the chin, until he lay splayed on the grass. Yanked him to his feet, so hard he pirouetted and nearly fell. He panted and braced his hands heavily on a tombstone.

She moved like the wind. She _was _the wind.

The boy fled.

* * *

><p>Once she'd hopped the fence two vampires later, Brittany shot a text to Quinn, asking if she was already at the Bronze. Quinn replied before Brittany even reached her bike: <em>Get here now. So bored.<em>

Just to center herself, calm herself, Brittany took her time getting there. Then again—considering the rush she got from the wind biting at her and the hum of the bike between her knees—maybe it was less about calming down and more about something else.

She dropped her helmet unceremoniously on the round table. As usual, Quinn didn't seem particularly surprised to see her, despite the way the table clattered and her drink rocked. "There you are," Quinn drawled loudly, disparaging even while shouting over the music and chatter.

"Here I am," Brittany answered. She glanced absently at the bar while she sat halfway on the stool.

"How's your night treating you so far?" Quinn's tone fell flat: a clear indicator of how the night had been treating _her_. Brittany looked at her now, carefully.

When the trap didn't make itself clear, Brittany shrugged. "Pretty good, I guess."

Quinn's eyes caught on Brittany's helmet, tracing its few scrapes and gaudy design, but she seemed to shelve her curiosity. Instead, she asked with venomous sarcasm potent enough to verbally mimic finger air quotes, "How was 'Spanish homework' with Santana?"

Brittany squinted. Santana had turned her down in the conversation with Quinn. With the air of a gentle reminder, Brittany corrected, "Without Santana."

"Right." Quinn snorted doubtfully. "Without her, then."

Brittany squirmed fully onto the seat and set her hands on the helmet. "It was easy," she answered, growing warier every second Quinn stared away from her. Quinn snorted again and turned from the table to the dance floor—not feigning disinterest, but maintaining her power as interrogator-apparent.

Eventually—or a few long, awkward seconds later—Brittany drummed her fingers against the plastic and said, "So, no Finn tonight?"

"He said he's tired," Quinn said with an unhappy smirk. "He has things to do." She flicked her eyes at Brittany and somehow seemed even more distant. "Everybody has things to do," she muttered, her pitch changing wildly, like she was mixing her unhappiness with hysterical laughter.

Quinn's hand settled on the glass in front of her. It looked like Sprite or 7-Up, translucent and fizzy. Quinn turned it in her hand and her gaze lit on Brittany's helmet again. She lifted her pointer finger from the glass and nodded slightly. "I forgot you had a motorcycle."

Brittany looked down at the helmet, too—though she knew it too well to bother looking at it, it seemed odd to keep staring at Quinn when Quinn was looking elsewhere—and removed her hands. "Yeah," she said, "I joined a club at my old school, and…"

The story died in her throat. Though Quinn seemed important, a good person to know, the Bronze felt like a poor setting to build a friendship.

Besides, Quinn looked way less interested in that than the Spanish homework, somehow.

Quinn drank her pop and her pinkie lifted from the glass, poised and perfect like a movie star. With her hair down and casually styled, she looked the part despite her overly modest dress.

"Your hair looks nice," Brittany said without meaning to.

Quinn looked up at her with unveiled suspicion. Brittany shrank against the stool, glanced uneasily at the dance floor, and tried again. "Is Santana coming?"

That nearly caught Quinn off guard: She shifted, propping her elbow on the table and her glass on one edge. She turned the glass the way private investigators in old films turned loaded revolvers on their oiled-wood desks. "I didn't text her," Quinn said with a shrug. "Figured she was busy, either way."

Brittany tilted her head. "Either way?"

The raised eyebrow. "Puck or… 'Spanish homework'."

She kept saying it the same way: the way a parent would refer to a child's imaginary friend by name.

"She's not the one who needs help with it," Brittany said. Clearly, a one-on-one conversation with Quinn was far over her head. The same feeling had pricked the back of her neck during their words in the equipment shed; she'd felt increasingly, disconcertingly sure she was missing half of Quinn's meaning, and Quinn was reading her words at twice their intent.

"I bet she doesn't." Quinn's lip curled.

"She's bilingual," Brittany said.

Quinn's smile looked like a grimace. She took another sip and set the glass hard on the table.

Brittany dropped her hands in her lap and twisted her fingers together. "Did you wanna dance or something?" she asked, suddenly wondering why Quinn was here of all places.

"No." Quinn's firmness was surprising; her expression, distraught despite her attempt to hide it, was more surprising still. "I don't feel like dancing tonight."

"Okay." Brittany looked around the space, taking in the pairs making out on the catwalk and the bodies heating the dance floor. She lost track of time in the looking, spotting possible brawlers and possible victims and only one possible vamp, disproven by the cross necklace she glimpsed.

When she looked at Quinn again, Quinn seemed even more lost, her eyes focused far beyond the farthest wall. Brittany's hands flew to her helmet and clenched. "It's late," Brittany said awkwardly.

Quinn's eyes came back to her and blinked to refocus. "Right." Her voice was hoarse.

"I have to go," Brittany said like an apology, tapping her helmet. "Supposed to be home a while ago."

A glance at Brittany's hands. "Before dark?"

Brittany nodded. Quinn just shrugged. "I'll see you at school," she said as she took the last sip of her drink.

"Right."

Brittany retreated, taking extra steps backward before turning away. Quinn's thousand-yard stare was back, a laser into the crowd.

The air was cool outside. Brittany looked at the sky and wondered what Quinn was thinking about.

* * *

><p>As she mounted her bike, Brittany found her head full of Santana and Quinn—their drawn faces and bottled thoughts. Her body followed a longer route, a detour back near the park and out of her way. Before long, she found herself back beside the cemetery, surprised and slowing to a stop. She turned off the engine.<p>

Santana's car sat in the side lot, behind the velvet silhouette of a tall oak tree. Brittany hesitated by the curb, leaning on her leg and waiting for some other vehicle to approach and spur her into action.

There was nothing. Only stillness and quiet, cool night air. It had to be near midnight, or past it. Though Brittany listened, she heard nothing.

Brittany pulled her helmet off and propped her bike on its stand in short, efficient bursts of motion. Still, she listened; still, she heard nothing. She peered at the cemetery, flicking her eyes at the spaces between tombstones, but saw no tornado, nor hint of her presence.

She stepped cautiously toward the fence. In the eerie bas relief, she could feel the heaviness of her body and the liquid pull of muscles in her thighs. The cemetery stood, solemn and silent as the grave.

A flash of movement, to Brittany's left, beyond the fence and the first rows of stones. A figure leaving a raised gravesite.

Just beyond, a shadow leapt over another headstone, looking a dark bird with its stretched fingers and ragged edges. Brittany barely registered the black hair and Santana's battle cry before the vampire lay prone beneath her.

Brittany jolted forward. Her fingers gripped the crossbar of the iron fence. She froze.

Again, Santana wasn't wielding a stake. From here, facing Santana's front, Brittany couldn't tell if she even had one with her. The vampire raised its arms high to protect its face; Santana's fists scooped in from the sides to box its ears.

Brittany felt her hands spasm against the iron. She dropped it quickly, stunned, eyes locked to Santana's knuckles, glistening wetly as the clouds peeled back from the moon.

Brittany staggered back. Santana's arm kept falling, though the pauses stretched longer between blows. The vampire had stopped struggling. Brittany's backside bumped her bike, and she bumbled around to refit her helmet and sit astride the seat.

A glance at the cemetery. From here, leaning to keep her balance, a grave's white statue of an angel praying obscured her view of Santana and the vampire.

Chilled, Brittany flipped down her visor and rode home.

* * *

><p>Brittany stopped on the street and walked her bike up the driveway. Instead of opening the garage door, she walked around and parked it in back.<p>

Part of her wondered if Santana went to Puck's at all. The rest of her wondered where else Santana would have gone.

As she slipped in the back door and moved silently up the stairs, she recalled the afternoon she spent with him, and the relative innocence of their conversation. The hopeful, hopeless voice inside insisted that, really, that's all Puck and Santana did when they were alone.

Brittany dumped her things out on the bed and her eyes wandered back to her phone. She had Puck's number; she could call him.

She stood, staring, suspended between idea and action.

Eventually, she swept the rest back into her patrol bag, dumped it under the bed, and plugged her phone in on her nightstand. She crawled under the covers without calling.

* * *

><p>Santana greeted her in the morning with coffee and the same guilty expression she wore in the library. Brittany dropped into the seat and pulled the door shut; she frowned when Santana nodded at the thermos and pulled out of the drive.<p>

"It's not early practice," Brittany said mildly. She took a tentative sip and tasted sweetener. A peace offering?

Santana shrugged. "Had a hard time getting up this morning," she said, though the thermos was full to the top and she drank her coffee black.

Instead of mentioning the sweetener, Brittany licked her lips and casually asked, "Long night?"

A smirk flickered across Santana's face, gone too quickly to seem genuine. "Hell yeah," she said with forced enthusiasm. As if on a whim, she added, "Puck's the only guy who really keeps up."

Brittany narrowed her eyes, but aimed them at the thermos as she sipped. She hadn't thought about it in a while, but she thought about it now: months ago, her second round with Jake, and how quickly and easily she'd outpaced him.

The memory, grafted onto Santana and Puck or anyone else, made Brittany's stomach contract.

"Hard to believe," Brittany commented, shrugging one shoulder. She felt Santana's hot stare and glanced over. Santana's eyes were wide—surprised more than affronted. "That he can keep up at all," Brittany explained.

The surprise washed into relief and Santana chuckled. "Yeah, well, you gotta take what you can get," she said. They were near the school, and focusing on the road kept Santana from noticing Brittany's stony stare.

Santana's girl-talk bluster didn't erase anything. Olive branch coffee didn't erase anything.

Unbidden, Brittany caught sight of the lightened coffee through the lid and thought of Santana's skin, smooth and strong in the darkness of her bedroom, hot to the touch, firm and alive.

She wiped spilled coffee from her chin and discarded the half-full thermos in the cupholder; she stared hard out the window as they pulled into the lot.

* * *

><p>In real life, witches couldn't be the way they looked in Halloween specials, with pointed caps and noses and cruel smiles. Witches would be like Slayers: invisible to the ignorant, flying broomless under the radar.<p>

Brittany glanced at every face in the hallway, but she couldn't decide what she was looking for. Her only suspect so far, really, was Kurt, because he sounded so freaky in the parking lot the week before.

Now, she couldn't even remember what he'd said to her—only the chill down her spine, and running over to Puck to avoid it. She'd seen spy movies, and _Harry Potter_; there had to be some kind of potion she could just casually spill on everybody to make spellcasters turn green.

Or purple. Purple could be cool.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Kurt turned into a classroom as Brittany passed it, wearing a cropped purple jacket and talking loudly to the girl entering in front of him.

Something about Beyoncé. Brittany didn't slow her steps.

* * *

><p>It was cool out on the field as afternoon wore on and the sun grew weaker. Brittany's warm skin and warm sweat felt nice for once, and she was somewhat jarred to realize it was already October.<p>

Only the 2nd, but still.

The workouts were still a challenge, more to her lungs than her supernatural muscles, but she no longer compared the grueling exercises and endless repetitions to the milder training at her old school. The red-and-white uniforms and endless flips and falls had become white noise to her body the way Coach Sylvester's bullhorn became white noise to her ears.

Brittany was working her cheek muscles, holding a grin the way she held her right foot up above her head, when the regular chaos of cheer practice was interrupted by a distant noise: an off-beat bass and the chirp of distant electronic singing.

Coach Sue sighed in exaggerated annoyance and pulled her phone out. She handed it to the captain on her left to answer while the rest of the squad held its pose.

Brittany could feel a quake below her, and a glance told her which girl was wavering. Brittany wriggled her toe and her second spotter gripped Brittany's shoe tighter to compensate.

"It's the office," the captain told Coach, holding the phone away from her mouth. "Call for Lopez."

"Lopez!" barked Coach, looking from face to face with obvious boredom. When she saw Santana spotting someone on the far right—as if Coach hadn't done the choreography herself, with more than enough eye for detail to know where every Cheerio was at any given time—she gave another loud sigh and crooked her finger. "Break formation. Get your ass over here."

Santana's flier fell gracefully and, once she was on her feet, Santana left her and the group and trotted over to Coach Sue. "What is it?" she asked, right as the captain hung up the phone.

Coach Sue fixed her eyes just above Santana's head and blatantly ignored her. The captain sneered. "Call from the office," she said. "Something about your mom. Said you weren't answering your phone."

From Brittany's strained position, frozen in center, she could only see Santana shake her head. Her words didn't reach as far as the captain's; she was probably talking quietly.

"Do you want to leave practice early?" asked Coach Sue, more a threat than a question, as she crossed her arms over the bullhorn and pinned Santana with a clearly disapproving glare.

"No," Santana said louder, shaking her head firmly.

The captain looked unimpressed, but deferred to Coach's judgment. Coach finally sniffed, regained her look of disinterest, and shrugged. "You'd better go call your mommy, Lopez. I'd hate to get you in trouble."

Santana stayed still for a moment. Trying to find a way out.

Brittany's leg twitched just behind the knee. Her hamstring was starting to ache from the held split. The third flier, to her left, had dropped her leg several minutes past, and now stood solidly on her spotters' hands.

"Can I make up practice later?" asked Santana, knowing the answer.

"Well, I don't know," Coach said in her looping, sarcastic voice. "Ya could, but some of us have to get home and make a nice, nutritious dinner for our dozens and dozens of championship trophies. Maybe if you kept better track of your schedule, you, too, could have that responsibility to look forward to."

"Tomorrow morning," Santana said, louder. Pushing. Her hands were fists at her sides. "Before your middle school clinic."

Coach Sue blinked. She seemed surprised, either at Santana's initiative or her knowledge of the clinic.

"I took it three years running," Santana explained quickly, before Coach could turn her down. "Through Fordham."

"Well, that's very interesting," Coach said, her tone sarcastic but her eyes genuine. She dropped back to her gruff bark: "Fine. Tomorrow morning, six sharp, here. Now get out of my sight."

Santana nodded, ducked her chin at the captain's glare, and hustled off the field.

Brittany's leg twitched.

"Get down," Coach directed, annoyed. "I didn't tell you to stay up there." Brittany startled and dropped easily; the girl on the left followed suit.

Santana disappeared into the gym doors. Brittany blew hair out of her eyes.

* * *

><p>As expected, Santana was long gone by the end of practice. Brittany took a shower in the locker room—a practice she usually avoided, since Santana never did it—and followed a clump of slow-walking Cheerios out to the parking lot with her bag over her shoulder.<p>

She'd planned to just walk home and enjoy the cool weather, especially since her ride disappeared into vague family matters, but she spotted Puck throwing his backpack into his pickup again and jogged over on a whim.

"Blondie," he said, grinning as he closed the hatch.

"Hey, Puck," Brittany said. "Think I could grab a ride?"

Puck shrugged, happy and easy, and strolled toward the front. "Hop in."

Brittany rounded the back, threw her backpack over the side, and climbed in the passenger seat. "Where to?" Puck asked amiably as he turned the key.

"Just home," Brittany said. She frowned at a small, flat pouch, hanging from his keychain. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Puck was already moving, wheeling around the near-empty lot and poking the truck's nose into the street.

Brittany nodded at his key, though he wasn't looking. "Your keychain."

"My—" He glanced down and chuckled. "Oh. I don't know," he admitted with a shrug, turning the wheel with Santana's casual surety, "some weird good luck thing from Quinn."

Brittany blinked. "Quinn?"

"Yeah." Puck hooked his elbow over the open window and braced his arm straight over the wheel: a nonchalant cold shoulder. Another Santana trick. "She gave it to me when football started."

"Cool." Brittany gave the pouch a last long look before turning to the window. She wondered if Finn had one.

"I guess. Left up here, right?" he slid his hands around the wheel.

Brittany squirmed in her seat. "Actually, do you wanna hang out for a little?"

Puck glanced at her, eyebrow raised, and rolled to a full stop at the stop sign. "You tryna mooch off my ganja again?" he asked with a grin. He didn't seem particularly bothered by the idea.

"No…" Brittany cleared her throat and sat up straighter. "I just don't wanna hang out with my parents all afternoon. You wanna go get a milkshake or something?"

"There's no sock'n'hop in Lima, complimary to popular belief," he joked, but he pulled away toward town anyway.

"I like milkshakes," Brittany said earnestly. "What's not to like about milkshakes?"

Puck glanced at her again. Almost curious. "It's a good point, I guess. Can't go wrong with dessert."

It felt like progress—establishing legal common interests. Brittany let the silence sink in while Puck took them down other side streets. She recognized a few from her roundabout ride the night before.

"So you did meet Santana's mom?" she asked hesitantly. She doubted what clues she did remember from their conversation, but Puck was her safest option to learn about Santana.

Since Santana was clearly an off-limits danger zone, anyway.

Puck's shoulder came up again; his other elbow on the window. "Once or twice, yeah. Why?"

Brittany shrugged and looked out the passenger window. "I met her the other day."

Night.

Whatever.

"She's a real treat," Puck said. He tried to scoff, but the words sounded dark.

Brittany wet her lips and watched the houses pass. "She didn't like you, either?"

"Well, I kinda met her in flagrante, or halfway into flagrante, anyway." Puck shrugged his raised shoulder.

"Oh." Brittany felt her face warm instantly. The tips of her ears. She leaned her head against the glass and sighed at its coolness. She dug back into their last conversation. "Who calls her, again?"

She could sense Puck slant his eyes toward her, quickly. "Who calls Santana, you mean?" he asked, hedging, like he wasn't sure what he should tell her.

"Yeah." Brittany sat up and turned to him again. "At school. About her mom."

Puck eyed her warily before turning back to the road. He pulled into the McDonald's lot and into the drive-thru line. "You mean Rafael?"

"Right."

He pulled forward one space, lips pursed. "You already knew his name, right? I mean…"

"He called during Glee," Brittany answered.

"Right." Puck snorted. "Forgot you guys got dragged into that faggot fest."

"Don't say that," Brittany said without thinking. Puck glanced at her, eyebrow raised. The driver ahead of them was shouting at the machine taking his order. Brittany shrugged uneasily and made something up. "Faggots are just fat maggots, and it's mean to call people maggots. Or fat."

Puck's expression turned dubious instantly, like he wasn't sure why he'd agreed to this in the first place. The person ahead moved to the next window and Puck pulled up. He ordered two chocolate milkshakes without asking what Brittany wanted.

"Who's Rafael, though?" asked Brittany, watching her hands as she dug out her pink wallet, even though she knew just where it was.

The truck lurched forward. Puck sounded nervous, skittish, when he answered, "He's… works at this bar in town. He calls her when her mom, like, needs her and stuff."

Brittany sat up and put two dollars in his hand as he stopped beside the window. He paid and took the milkshakes as Brittany echoed, "Needs her."

Puck gave her one and stuffed his in the cupholder. He drove out of the lot and headed back toward Brittany's house. "No, like, offense, but why are you asking me all this stuff?"

"What do you mean?" Brittany licked the cherry off the whipped cream. Puck didn't notice. He kept biting his lip as he turned the wheel.

"I dunno," he said with a gush of air. He blew through a stop sign. His face contracted in a confused frown. "Why don't you just ask her?"

Brittany stopped with her mouth half-open. She turned slightly but couldn't think of an answer to give him. Nothing could prove that nothing was wrong.

Puck glanced at her again. "Aren't you two, like, super close?"

"Let me out here," Brittany blurted. They'd just reached an empty intersection. Puck stopped at the sign and looked at her incredulously. "I forgot, I have to meet Katie," Brittany lied easily, yanking the door open.

"Okay," said Puck, bewildered.

"I'll see you at school."


	26. Idling

don't own glee or any of the music mentioned here. also still sorry these take me forever to write.

* * *

><p>Brittany's dad was glued to the television when she walked in the door: normal, but for his tense posture and creased brow. Brittany detoured into the den and hovered at his shoulder, scanning the screen. It showed an international conference happening in Zurich; Brittany scrunched her nose, confused, and glanced at the bottom ribbon.<p>

Beside the station logo, she caught the phrase _disturbance in Lima _as it flitted by. "What's up?" she asked casually.

He hesitated, mustache bristling, but admitted, "Something tore a hole in the back of the gas station."

"Some_thing_?"

"Someone, I guess." His uneasy shrug confirmed her suspicion: Too vicious for a human.

Brittany wet her lips. "Why a gas station?"

Ice _tink_ed against the glass in his hand. He'd begun drinking water instead of pop to settle his stomach. "Who knows, beetle?" he asked, at once solemn and helpless. She touched his shoulder and squeezed, but he didn't look up.

* * *

><p>Quinn called on Saturday, seconds after Brittany stepped out of the studio and onto the parking lot. "Hello?" Brittany answered, surprised Quinn would call.<p>

"Have you figured out your Glee song yet?" Quinn asked. Apparently, _brusque and annoyed _was her only mode on the phone.

Brittany faltered, digging for an answer and digging for her keys. She hadn't changed back into jeans—had left them in her bag—but the keys were still in the pocket. She squatted and unzipped the main pouch, barely managing, "Glee song? I…"

"Do you want to help me look for one?" The request sounded more like an order. An impatient one, to boot. Brittany could sense Quinn's insecurity, bobbing just below the surface.

Asking for help?

"Look for a song?" Brittany parroted, still pawing for her keys. A girl from her class waved as she passed, and Brittany waved back, tucking the phone against her opposite shoulder.

"Yes, a song," Quinn snapped. "Stop echoing me. Can you help me or what? Or are you busy doing _Spanish homework _with Santana again?"

Brittany frowned and fished out the keyring. "Spanish homework?" She bit the ring in her teeth to close the zipper. Around it, she asked, muffled, "Why would I—"

"Of course," Quinn continued in a mutter to herself, "you wouldn't answer the phone then…"

Brittany stood and unlocked the car. "I'm not, I'm at the dance studio," she cut off. She wondered if Santana would come out of hiding to help patrol. "And, I mean, we mostly work on it at night, anyway."

Quinn snorted. "I'll bet you do."

Brittany frowned harder. "I don't get what Spanish has to do with—"

"Nothing. Do you want to work on Glee together or not?" Quinn rushed the words together, probably to mask the request.

Brittany remembered choreographing the dance. Quinn's prickliness, and how carefully she'd hidden her gratitude. Where Santana's caution was all bluster, Quinn's was a neat cross-stitch, tucking bedraggled lies beneath the wicking and leaving a pretty picture on top.

"Sure," Brittany said with a shrug. She tossed her bag on the passenger seat and started the car. "I've got nothing else to—"

"Fine. Now?"

"I could use a shower…"

"Fine." Quinn answered immediately. "Text me when you leave."

* * *

><p>Brittany dragged her wrinkled jeans from her duffel bag, but grabbed a fresh shirt from her drawer. She'd just pushed through the neck of it when she noticed the brand new Cheerios sweatshirt, still half-folded and drooping out of the bag of gear she'd gotten for surviving the first month. Given the wind outside, she decided to break it in, pawing it toward her with her foot while she texted Quinn <em>leaving n a min<em>.

She loped down the stairs, called her destination to her parents, and stood three strides from her bike when her phone buzzed. Quinn, already: _Bring your iPod_.

Brittany quashed a sigh and jogged back upstairs. The sweatshirt felt a little tight across her chest, crunchy under the big cheer horn emblazoned on the front, and she yanked it around on her body while she hunted for her iPod. She found it pushed back behind her laptop screen; she slipped it into her pocket and bolted back downstairs.

"Are you taking your bike?" her mom yelled loudly, before Brittany could get out the garage door.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone," Brittany called back. She gripped the door handle and tried not to cringe.

"You shouldn't ride it on the street if you can take the car, honey."

"I'm only going to Quinn's house," Brittany said. Quinn's house was farther than the school or the cemetery, but it still wouldn't take long on her bike.

Her mother emerged from the kitchen, snapping a lid on a Tupperware box with Katie's PB&J. "It's silly to take your bike when both our cars are here," she said in a sad voice.

Brittany bit her lips. "I don't know if I'll be back for Katie's game," she repeated.

"Your dad and I are driving together."

Brittany glanced over her shoulder at the garage door. "I was thinking about riding out to the track, after," she admitted. A lie, but an appealing one. Maybe she could leave Quinn's early and go before patrol.

Her mother sighed, long-suffering. "All right. Please be careful, Brittany," she said like she always did.

Brittany nodded. Her hand went to her phone—quiet in her pocket—and she wondered again if Santana would leave her to patrol solo. "Always am," she told her mother cheerfully, whisking out the door as she said it.

* * *

><p>Quinn eyed Brittany's mud-spattered jacket and helmet with curiosity or disgust—indistinguishable expressions, on Quinn.<p>

"Hi," Brittany greeted, hoping to break Quinn's stare.

Quinn kept looking at the raised armor plates on Brittany's arm, bulkier for the sweatshirt underneath. She met Brittany's eyes with fierce urgency and sudden understanding: "You rode your bike here?"

"Yeah," Brittany said, growing uneasy.

Immediately, Quinn stepped onto the porch and walked around Brittany, watching for the driveway to come into view. "Did you ride through a ditch to get here?" she asked, even as she sped her steps when she didn't see the bike.

Brittany followed warily. "No; the mud's from—"

"There it is," Quinn said, somehow worried and relieved at the same time. From halfway down the driveway, she spied the bike, parked up on the sidewalk where asphalt snuck under the evergreen on the lawn: a remnant of an older driveway, long replaced.

"Yeah," Brittany said slowly, forever waiting for Quinn to make sense.

Quinn walked to the bike and turned, gazing through the needles at each of her house's windows. "I guess she can't see it," she thought aloud, quietly.

"The bike?"

With a curt nod, Quinn retraced her path up to the door. Brittany trailed her. Inside the foyer, Quinn faltered again, studying Brittany's muddy gear with clear annoyance. "Let's put it in the mud room," Quinn decided eventually. She guided Brittany to a small closet to the left of the door, tucked between the coat closet and the kitchen doorway.

Without touching Brittany or her helmet, Quinn gestured to the dark, ruddy carpet covering most of the floor. "Just put your things… there," she said, pointing to the mat. The room was nearly empty, but for a two pairs of fashionable flowered rain boots and a set of children's snowpants on a hook. Brittany looked at them curiously as she shrugged out of her jacket and set it on the mat with her helmet. "Whose—"

"No one's, now," Quinn said snappishly. "Come on."

* * *

><p>Brittany made a leisurely circuit of Quinn's room while she rattled song options. Quinn had two tall stacks of jewel CD cases—most had come from her sister, when she left for college—and she'd spread them in two neat fans across her bedspread, considering the merits of each out loud.<p>

At first, Brittany had obediently scrolled through her iPod, searching for each Christian rock artist despite knowing she wouldn't find it. When Quinn huffed at Brittany's third apologetic shrug, Brittany switched her tack and asked questions instead, to let Quinn steer her own conversation.

"What do they sound like?" she'd ask. "Is the range okay?"

Quinn had high-level analysis ready for every artist, and a sharp, specific critique of her own vocal capacity. Her church took chorus very seriously, she'd explained, the last time Glee had come up at lunch and Santana had derided Quinn's musical training.

"Oh, I can't use this one," Quinn said mournfully, tapping a nail against the case. Clearly a favorite; clearly beyond one of Quinn's limits.

"Why not?" asked Brittany. Her tone nearly revealed how tired she was of listening to Quinn's demure wallowing. Brittany ran her fingers along the spines of Quinn's books: her favorites, given places of honor along the back of her desk. Two were Bibles.

"I could never do them justice," Quinn lamented with one of her airy sighs.

Brittany carefully veiled her annoyance and walked toward the bed, resolving to leave soon if Quinn kept sighing about her vocal range. "Which one, again?" she asked, sitting on the other side of Quinn's CD waves.

Quinn tugged the corner of the case out of line with its neighbors. "This one," she said. Brittany glanced at it: a colorful cover, with cursive lettering. "A little like Switchfoot," Quinn admitted more quietly.

"My cousins always play Switchfoot when we go to their house," Brittany said, sweeping her eyes over Quinn's collection. Most bands and titles were unfamiliar.

"They're a bit loud," Quinn said. The sharpness sounded forced: too quick to snap back, like a triggered mousetrap.

Brittany cocked her head, laying eyes on a black-and-white cover, distinct from the flowery pictures around it. She eased it out and recognized the woman's face. Her parted lips and white teeth. Her expression, dark and thick.

"I know this one," Brittany said, cutting Quinn off halfway through a word.

Brittany nudged the case further out while Quinn narrowed her eyes. "I don't care for her," she said, a little haughty. "My mom bought it for me last Christmas, because of the title."

_Somebody's Miracle_. The irony was too dry to smile about. Brittany traced the wave of the woman's hair. It looked like Santana's, a little. The expression, too. Head tilted back. Resigned, somehow.

"Anyway, I didn't think it was that good," Quinn sniffed.

Brittany dragged it out and flipped it over, running her eyes over the song tracks. Her parents had this CD, tucked in faithful alphabetical order among their stacks in the closet with the old stereo. "I like it," she said, wondering when she'd last heard it. Spring cleaning, maybe.

Her finger ran down the tracks. She remembered the title song from the month she discovered the CD, inexplicably morose over her second cousin's engagement and wondering if hooking up with jocks was all she had to look forward to. The other songs were less familiar, though she remembered liking the taste of their names.

"I don't think she matches your voice, anyway," Quinn was saying.

"Huh?" Brittany asked absently.

"Liz Phair." Quinn shifted, rigid on the bed. "I mean, no offense, Brittany, but her voice is just better than yours."

Brittany felt her insides clench and harden, like they were coiling up to strike. "What do _you _think I should do, then?" Brittany asked, harshness spilled over the words.

Quinn shrugged. "You know. Like, pop. Radio."

Brittany stared down at the CD. "I have to go," she heard herself say.

A beat. "Already?" Somewhere between disappointed and irritated.

Brittany shrugged, shoving her iPod in her sweatshirt pouch. "Sorry."

Quinn's lip twitched. Disbelief. Brittany smiled brightly and said, "Thanks for having me over, though. Call me when you narrow it down, okay?"

Without waiting for response, Brittany turned and jogged out of Quinn's room. Halfway down the stairs, Quinn called from the doorway: "You should try Sheryl Crow, maybe. Something sunnier."

"Sunnier?" Brittany squinted up at her, one foot frozen on the bottom stair.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Or Avril Lavigne, if you prefer," she said, heavily sarcastic.

Brittany forced another grin to the surface. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>Before dinner, Brittany sent Santana a text on a whim: <em>wanna hunt the gas guzler w me? cud b fun.<em>

She left her phone upstairs on purpose. After she'd stalled and washed the dishes, she went up and checked her phone to find a text from Quinn instead: _Tell Santana to answer her phone instead of acting like a child._

Brittany sent a noncommittal question mark and trudged back downstairs. Almost as soon as she plopped down beside Katie to watch some inane cartoons, Brittany's mother peered over her newspaper and asked, "Do you have homework to do, Brittany?"

"It's Saturday," Brittany hedged. She slumped against the cushions.

"Still." Her mother shrugged, casual, the way Brittany hated. "Never too early to get the jump on it."

"I just wanna watch cartoons right now," Brittany mumbled. Katie shifted beside her.

Their mother sighed. "If that's what you want to do," she said.

* * *

><p>Brittany slowed to a stop after a stop by the decimated gas station and an hour of fruitless patrolling between there and the cemetery. She eased her phone from her pocket and checked the display again. No messages.<p>

She opened a new draft, tucking her stake under her arm, and typed, _no sign of baddie. wat r u up 2_

She composed a second message for Beiste and Holly Holliday: _did u hear about the gas station? i checked it out but didnt find nething._

With one last look, she headed for the fence.

* * *

><p>Well past midnight, Brittany lay in bed, awake and restless. The glow-in-the-dark stars offered no inspiration. They hadn't for the past hour or so.<p>

Brittany finally jerked into motion. She slithered out from under her sheets and felt around on the floor, where she'd dumped her clothes before dressing for the sleep that wouldn't come. She fished her iPod out of the pocket and crawled back into bed. She got her earbuds from the nightstand drawer—knotted and snarled—and stuck them in her ears, plugging them in and searching the Albums at the same time. She found the CD she'd seen at Quinn's—_Somebody's Miracle_—and selected the first track.

The song began immediately. As it played, the screen dimmed and went dark; Brittany turned on her side, curled into herself like a seashell, and listened.

* * *

><p>On Sunday, she woke up to stale silence. When she remembered, she pulled the headphones out of her ears; the cartilage released with a soft sound of relief.<p>

Phone. She felt for it; squinted at it with bleary eyes. Sleep-sand pricked under her eyelids. No messages. 8:30.

By the time her father came to wake her up at 10—once her mother and sister had left for church—Brittany was up, rubbing sleep from her eyes and stretching her limbs slowly.

"Hey, sweetie," he called, knocking his knuckle on the door. Unlatched, it opened under the pressure, and he smiled in surprise to see her standing. "You're up."

Brittany half-smiled. "I'm up."

He wrung his hands absently. "You want me to make you some breakfast?"

Brittany stared blankly for a moment—nearly too long—and relaxed. "Yeah." She smiled better. "Thanks, Dad."

Once he retreated from the door and she heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs, she glanced at her phone contemptuously and retrieved her iPod. When she pressed the center button, she noticed that sometime last night, she'd switched from the first track listed down to one near the middle—probably to hear it again. _Closer to You. _Brittany mouthed the words.

Her phone fell to the floor from her bed. She started at the noise and cursed.

Brittany took an earbud—swinging from the jack, still a rat's-nest snarl—and put it in, choosing the song to see if she remembered it.

As she listened, hearing the hiss of the frying pan in her other ear, Brittany's gaze landed on her phone. She sighed, cursed quietly, and stuck it in her pocket before she went downstairs.

* * *

><p>By early afternoon, Brittany had gone for a long run through the neighborhood and received two texts from Beiste and Holly. Beiste's was unsurprising: <em>No coincidences in this town. We'll talk Monday, god instincts kid.<em> The typo made Brittany smile a little.

Holly's was uncharacteristically serious. _Full moon that night, talk tmrw._

Nothing from Santana. Or Quinn, actually.

Idly, lounging on her bed post-shower and listening to Katie blast preteen pop in her room, Brittany opened her phone and sent yet another message to Santana: _r u ok? how cum i havent heard from u? _She initially added _did u go c sue yesterday?_, but deleted it immediately. Three questions seemed like too many. Even one question had been too many. She sighed and sent it.

To keep her mind off it, Brittany shoved her phone under her bedding, popped her earbuds in, and spread out her homework on her desk. _Somebody's Miracle _was starting to grate on her nerves. To amuse herself, and with a stab of spite for Quinn that felt ominously reminiscent of Santana, Brittany switched to Avril Lavigne and smirked at the familiar guitar bits.

At dinnertime, Brittany's mother had to walk in to get Brittany's attention over the music. Her annoyance melted into subtly happy surprise when she saw Brittany doing her homework. When Brittany popped her earbud out, her mother said, "Dinner," in her offhand way.

"Be right there," Brittany said, lurching halfway out of the seat to clean the disarray of her desk.

Her mother walked backward to the doorway and said, softly, "Take your time."

Before heading down, Brittany checked her phone and found—still—nothing. More annoyed than disappointed, now, she texted Puck. _have u seen santana? tell her 2 call me alredy_.

* * *

><p>Brittany jogged in a loop before heading to the graveyard, turning the music low as she rounded the corner. Despite her training, she was considering leaving the earbuds in to patrol when she caught a flash of movement.<p>

Brittany froze, seeing only swooping shadows, before crouching and creeping further along the fence. The tombstones were mostly in rows beside her, offering only their narrowest side to shield Brittany from whatever cast the shadow. She paused when she caught sight of the shadow again.

Without knowing why, she glanced to her right. There it was. Parked in the lot: Santana's car.

Brittany frowned. She climbed the fence on silent feet and jumped to a wide tombstone nearby. She could make out Santana, running down a column far across the yard, following a lumbering football player.

Brittany dropped to the grass and jogged toward them, keeping low among the headstones. As she closed distance, the wind shifted, and she heard Santana's voice, shouting.

Spanish, or incoherent. The football player looked as confused by it as unsettled by her.

Brittany slowly stood. Santana chased him the other direction, toward the postern gate. As he clambered over it, Santana's shouts rose in a peak to a shriek. She grabbed the rungs of the fence and shook violently, rattling the gate a few yards down. Brittany could hear the lock shaking against the iron.

The jock was already disappearing from sight. Santana stood, shoulders rising shakily with each breath, and watched after him for a long time.

Brittany slunk back behind the mausoleum and looked at her phone. One message from Puck. _havent seen her._


	27. Clutch

don't worry, i'm not abandoning this or anything. you're always welcome to hound me at ehefic dot tumblr dot com. the "myth-taken" line comes from Buffy in season 4 of BtVS.

* * *

><p>Santana brought olive branch coffee again. She held it out before Brittany even opened the door, and smiled awkwardly when Brittany nearly spilled it.<p>

The smile disappeared quickly, skittish as a deer. "Sorry I didn't text you back," Santana said first. Her hand lingered on the shifter. "My phone died, and I didn't notice until, like, really late last night." Her fingers tapped anxiously.

"It's alright." Brittany sipped the coffee tentatively and found it sweetened again. "Patrol was pretty quiet," she offered, as Santana backed them out of the driveway.

Santana adjusted her body in the seat and spun the wheel one-handedly, endlessly smooth, endlessly beautiful. Santana took the bait and said, hopefully, "I went out for a little while, but I didn't run into you."

"I saw your car leaving last night, I think."

"Yeah, maybe. Sorry."

"It's okay." Brittany peered at Santana's pinched expression.

Another block down, and it bubbled to the surface. "I'm sorry about missing patrols," she said. Her hand wrung the steering wheel. "Things are all weird right now."

The words were edged, like a rubber band pulled tight. Brittany swallowed the taste of coffee and found herself saying, far too bitterly, "I know, Puck's demanding a lot of attention recently."

Santana flinched away from her, turning to look out the left window, as if checking for traffic on the empty residential street at 6:30 on Monday morning. "My family was around this weekend, too."

Brittany bit her lip hard. She'd remembered Puck's text too late; for once, he hadn't seen Santana, either. Miserable guilt gobbled up her irritation. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"No, you're right," Santana began, raising her shoulder to hide her face. As her shoulder sank, though, she grew tenser. Cords stood out along her forearm. "But don't pull any Fabray shit on me. I can't take that from you." Santana sucked her lips into her mouth; her eyes glittered in the sunlight.

Panic clutched Brittany's chest. Was Santana crying?

"Fabray shit?" asked Brittany, her voice a fearful squeak. She set the coffee in the cupholder.

"We're teenagers," Santana continued, almost hurried. "We're supposed to be horny."

Her foot fell heavier on the pedal; she was getting riled—angry, defensive, or both. Brittany squirmed straighter in her seat. "That's not what I meant," she said, so loud and firm it stopped Santana's downward spiral.

Santana looked at her sharply and turned the wheel. "What did you mean, then?"

_I want you to pay attention to _me.

Brittany sighed, disgusted with herself and Santana and Puck and Quinn and everyone else. She turned away from Santana's wet eyes and told the window, "Never mind."

* * *

><p>At the school, Brittany immediately broke away to hunt down Mr. Schuester. "Can I do my song tomorrow?" she asked as she opened the door.<p>

He looked up, startled, from the mess on his desk. "Brittany." He gave her a warm, hollow smile. "What can I do for you?"

She hesitated, still hovering with her hand on the doorknob, and repeated herself. "Can I do my song tomorrow, instead of waiting."

Mr. Schue stared blankly until he processed the sentence. "But you have practice, don't you? Sue made that pretty clear…" He half-smirked.

Brittany shrugged. "I can get out of it. I don't want… I wanna do my song tomorrow, instead."

"Why?" He leaned back in the chair and hooked his elbow over the back. "Remember, you'll probably get in more trouble than I will, even," he chided.

"I'll worry about me. Can I do the song?"

He froze and considered her, his expression strange. Her fingers gripped the knob tighter. "Yeah, okay," he said finally. "If you want."

Brittany ducked back into the hall and pulled the door closed hard behind her.

* * *

><p>After homeroom, Brittany dodged Santana and skipped down the hallway to Holly's office, humming. She knocked and turned the handle at the same time; Holly was on the phone, distracted, twirling her hair around her finger and smiling slyly. <em>Come in<em>, she mouthed, waving Brittany inside.

"You're tellin' me, tiger," she said into the phone. She listened while Brittany rocked on her heels. "Alright, well, I've gotta go help some impressionable teens, but I'll call you later, okay? Rad. Bye." She hung up and hit her palms on the table. "What's up, girlie?"

Brittany squirmed around the closing door. "Did you wanna talk about this weekend?" she asked, put off by Holly's cheeriness.

"Well, mine was awesome, thanks for asking." Holly rocked back in her chair, stretching like a cat. "Yours?"

Brittany glanced behind her and leaned against the door. "Confusing," Brittany admitted, "since there was a giant monster thing ripping through gas stations…"

"Right." Holly held her hand like a pistol and clicked at Brittany. "Probably a werewolf, with the full moon and everything."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

Brittany rubbed her hands together behind her back. "Could a, like, magic charm type thing keep someone from getting bewitched?"

Holly frowned.

Brittany fought to keep her voice from coming out small. "Like, say, a football player?"

Holly bit her lips thoughtfully. "Maybe," she drawled out. "But… it's hard to say, since we don't know what's up with them in the first place." Her chair hit the floor with a loud noise and she leaned on her little desk. "I say you focus on the rabies problem first, sweet cheeks. Full moon's not done yet, so you'd better report to the training room after school so's Beiste and I can hook you up with some sleepy juice shooters, capisce?"

"Some what?" Brittany's face pinched.

"Tranquilizers, girlie." Holly smiled right as the bell rang. Her eyes rolled up at the ceiling. "Better get going before you get a tardy slip."

Brittany nodded dumbly and left without a word.

* * *

><p>Brittany twisted lettuce around her fork without looking up. Santana and Quinn were snipping at each other.<p>

"Can we hang out after school?" Brittany asked Santana, purposefully interrupting. She glanced up to see Santana looking back, sharp-eyed.

"For 'Spanish homework'?" Quinn snorted.

Santana turned her sharp eyes to Quinn, glinting like the edge of a knife. "Sorry?" she asked. Not sorry at all.

Quinn rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. "Oh, honestly, you two are so transparent."

Brittany glanced at Santana on high alert. Santana squared her shoulders and sat straighter, like Katie's feisty cat Chastity right before she bit. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Brittany dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the plate. Her fingers gripped the table edge.

"I know you're hooking up," Quinn snapped quietly, clearly disgusted.

Beside Brittany, Santana let all her air out in a gasp, like she'd been surprised by a punch to the gut. Before Santana could recover or react, Brittany blurted, "We're not, we're hunting vampires."

Santana's head snapped around toward her, but Brittany kept her eyes on Quinn and her face as blank as she could make it.

The silence lingered a beat too long, until Santana sucked in a breath, clearly ready to clean up Brittany's mess. For once, she didn't seem to follow Brittany's thought process.

Instead, Quinn leaned over the table slowly, inch by inch. "Is that why the population's gone down?" she asked, deadly serious, looking Brittany steadily in the eye.

Brittany opened her mouth, but couldn't summon words to say. Santana's hand jumped up, like she was going to slap Quinn, but it dropped to the table and fidgeted instead. "What?" Santana snapped.

Quinn retreated slightly, sliding her eyes to Santana and back to Brittany. "It's gone down." She squinted in careful consideration. "You weren't kidding," she declared.

Inside, Brittany felt her blood cooling, like steam rising off the lake. "What do you know?" she asked softly.

Quinn glanced around them at the disinterested student mass and sat back on the bench, hunched closer to them. "What are you doing fighting vampires?" she hissed, back to her judging concern, looking suspiciously at Santana and condescendingly at Brittany.

Santana scoffed, insulted, and did a double-take when she realized Quinn wasn't pulling her leg. "You fucking idiot," Santana whispered harshly. She crossed her arms and leaned them on the tabletop. "We're Slayers."

Quinn frowned, then. Glanced between them. She snorted, once, but her smile wiped away. "You're serious?"

"No, I'm fucking kidding," Santana spat.

"The f-bomb isn't going to make you more convincing, Santana."

"No, but it'll fucking make me feel better. What the fuck, of course we're serious."

"I…" Quinn folded her arms across her chest and tapped her fingers. A strange smile swam on her lips. "I thought Slayers were a myth, is all."

A long pause—loud, somehow, in the loud cafeteria. "You were myth-taken," Brittany quipped.

"What the fuck do you know about it, anyway?" Santana bit. Her eyes flashed; her nails bit the skin at her elbow. Brittany could hear her mind racing. She brushed Santana's side with her arm.

Santana turned to her sharply, and Brittany was careful not to meet her eyes. Quinn shrugged. "I've dabbled in witchcraft," she said with the kind of careful nonchalance that usually meant bragging.

"Dabbled?" Brittany asked. Santana squirmed on the seat. "Say, you didn't, like, dabble near the football field or something, did you?"

Quinn scowled her _don't be stupid _scowl. "What are you talking about?"

"You thought we were hooking up?" Santana blurted.

It took a moment for Quinn to consider Santana before she answered. "It made sense," she said casually, "since you're always together, talking in code and keeping me out of it."

"Well, we're not," Santana snapped. Tight, and too fast, and too obvious.

Quinn sent her a strange look. "Alright—"

"You gave Puck a charm," Brittany remembered aloud, abruptly.

That caught Quinn off guard. She stilled, lips parted, and it gave Santana a chance to recover.

"I gotta gay. Go." Her foot caught on the bench as she climbed out. She didn't even look back. "I gotta go."

She was gone before Brittany or Quinn could react.

"What's her deal?" Quinn asked. She watched Santana burst out the double doors. Calm as still water, and just as cold.

"Nobody's supposed to know we're Slayers," Brittany reminded her quietly. She realized the sound in her ears was her pulse, loud and liquid. She wondered if Santana was as nervous.

"How are both of you Slayers?" asked Quinn, her sharp eyes cutting to Brittany. "The legend's all 'One girl in all the world,' I thought."

Brittany shrugged. Glanced over her shoulder. After Santana. "I'm not sure. Usually, it's…" She shook her head and looked back at the table. "Usually, it's just one."

The bell rang. Brittany jerked to her feet and knocked her thighs painfully against the Formica. "Ow. Um. I'll see you later."

"Practice," Quinn confirmed, rising with grace.

"Right." Brittany staggered off the bench and toward her next class.

* * *

><p>Brittany snuck her backpack out with her on a bathroom run to change her books during her last class. She found herself feeling uneasy about the prospect of running into Santana. She skipped her locker once class let out and went straight to Holly's office, fighting upstream through the clot of students.<p>

Holly wasn't inside when she got there, but it only took a few minutes for Holly to appear at the end of the hallway with a folder in her arm and a clearly smitten freckly boy trailing behind her. She caught sight of Brittany and dislodged the boy before she got to the office.

"Here for your heroin?" Holly winked.

"No, I—"

"Horse tranqs, I know." Holly grinned and started walking toward the training rooms. "No worries, I got your back."

"It's not that," Brittany pushed. The hallways were already clearing out near the gyms, with athletes in the locker rooms and everyone else gone. "It's—listen," she whined, tugging Holly's arm.

Holly paused at the corner and turned to her curiously. "What is it?"

"Quinn's a witch," Brittany said quietly. "But I can't get her to tell me if she's behind the football team, or what. But she gave Puck a charm, I think."

Holly frowned. "A charm?"

"I think it might protect him. From the evil spell."

"I see." Holly smiled crookedly. "Good work. Let's get you that tranquilizer."

Brittany bit her lips, but Holly headed down the hall before she could press the issue. She followed obediently until they reached Beiste's office, where Holly let herself in and offered a sizeable rifle and a cache of small darts with long, wicked noses.

Beiste arrived while Brittany was fitting the rifle in her backpack diagonally.

"For the werewolf," Holly said in place of a greeting.

Brittany's mouth dropped open, ready to apologize or explain or something, but Beiste waved her off with a grunt. "What a day. Werewolf, you said?"

"At the gas station," Holly said with a nod.

"Ah, that makes sense." Beiste smiled.

Brittany yanked the zipper closed. "I have to go to practice. Can you please research the charm?" The question came out hollow.

Holly shrugged. "Sure thing, sweet cheeks. Kinda vague, though. Maybe you can ask Quinn about it."

Brittany shut the door behind her.

* * *

><p>During warmups, Brittany slid in next to Quinn. Quinn looked pointedly at Santana, several yards away from them, waving at Puck across the field. "No Spanish homework today, huh?" she asked drily.<p>

"It's daytime," Brittany said uncertainly. "Spanish homework doesn't come out until sunset."

"Uh huh."

Brittany squinted at the sun and bent to touch her toes. "So… you're sure you didn't, like, bewitch a football or something?"

"What are you even talking about?" Quinn sounded more amused than annoyed, this time. "Having nightmares of gym class or something?"

"Different kind of nightmares," Brittany answered, surprised Quinn knew about them. "You know about them?"

Quinn stood straighter. "About what?"

Brittany blinked. "The nightmares."

"Oh… what? I just meant…" Quinn frowned.

"The football team," Brittany rushed. She felt fear flood her limbs just remembering the nightmares. "They're acting all weird, like someone put a spell on them…" She trailed off.

Quinn's brows pushed together. Harder. Angrier. "Well, it wasn't me."

Brittany shied, turning her body a little to the left, away from Quinn's glare. "Okay, then. I was just asking."

Quinn was quiet a moment, then demurred. "I did notice they were acting more aggressive," she admitted. "That's… why I gave Puck a protective charm." She shrugged self-consciously.

"So it _is_ a protective charm?" Brittany stretched her arm across her chest, mindful of Coach Sylvester pacing up and down the columns.

"It's supposed to be." Quinn sounded smaller now; quiet, like when she talked about her singing voice, and how it wasn't good enough.

"I think it's working," Brittany offered, nudging her elbow against Quinn's.

Though she didn't smile, her lips quirked up at the edges. "We'll see. I have no idea what's affecting them, anyway, so the charm's just sort of a general protection spell…"

Brittany nodded. "I just wish the whole team had one."

Quinn drew back, scowling, but Coach interrupted them with a call for formation.

As they jogged farther onto the field, Santana caught Brittany's eye. Brittany looked away.

* * *

><p>After practice, while their sweat dried on their skin, Brittany walked up beside Santana and murmured, "We need to patrol tonight."<p>

Santana stared ahead, walked woodenly, and said nothing.

"Holly thinks it might be a werewolf," Brittany whispered. "She gave me a tranquilizer… but I'm kinda nervous to use it."

"I can use it." Santana kept staring ahead.

"Okay… so can you maybe pick me up after dinner? Or I could come get you…"

"I can meet you there." Santana held open the door to the locker rooms. Brittany hesitated, trying to read Santana's blank face.

Santana raised her eyebrows and nodded at the doorway. Brittany ducked inside.

"Just bring it with you," Santana said as they followed the winding hallway. The noise from the Cheerios inside bounced off the tiled walls. "I'll show you what to do."

"Have you fought—um—those before?" Brittany censored as they passed the second doorway.

Santana didn't seem to hear.

* * *

><p>The damage was already done by the time they got to the cemetery. Santana was just stepping out of her car when Brittany pulled up in her mom's minivan, and they both heard a dog's yelp of pain ring out over the stillness and the <em>click <em>of the minivan door locks.

Santana glanced at Brittany and sprinted for the fence. Brittany cleared it only seconds after Santana, but the noise had died out by the time they got to it. A dog lay shredded on the lawn. Brittany's stomach turned heavily.

Santana held her arm out across Brittany's stomach, bracing her, or maybe keeping her from running to the carcass. A whimper came from their right; Santana whipped to face it, all storm and stealth.

It was Kurt, when they crept around the tombstone. He was kneeling, crying.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" Santana hissed at him. She stood bent at the waist, her hands raised halfway, ready for trouble.

"It killed her," he was sobbing. "Just killed her."

"What was it?" Brittany asked, wary of Santana, wary of her own jitters. Wary of the empty graveyard and the full moon.

"Some—some kind of monster," Kurt said. He wiped his face, red and moist in the light.

Santana crouched. She splayed her fingertips against the earth, barely touching. Still ready for flight. "What did you see? Tell me what you remember." She would have sounded comforting if she hadn't said it so harsh and urgent.

"He was looking for someone," Kurt said. His tears stained his voice. "God, he kept talking to me, and chasing me. He was looking for someone named Belle."

"Belle?" Santana grimaced. "What is this, a fucking fairy tale?"

Kurt shrugged helplessly. "He said he lost her. I…"

"Come on," Brittany said. She gripped Santana's shoulder. "We should try to follow him. Kurt… you should go home, okay?"

He nodded and glanced unhappily at the dog's body.

Santana stood reluctantly. "Go home and stay there," she repeated, but Kurt was already stumbling away.

Brittany stared at the dog, eyes unfocused. Santana shook her. "You brought the tranqs, right?" she said, more softly than she'd spoken to Kurt.

Brittany shrugged one shoulder, shifting her bag against her back. "In the bag."

Santana unzipped it and hefted the rifle with eerie familiarity. She rested it against her shoulder and shook her head. "You should go home, too, Brittany. You can learn to kill werewolves another day."

"Kill?" Brittany's eyes bugged. "Santana, werewolves are people most of the time, they're not—"

Santana was already walking away from her. "Go home," she called over her shoulder.

* * *

><p>Brittany didn't go home. She followed Santana for a solid hour, combing the surrounding area for a path of destruction.<p>

Normally, paths of destruction were pretty obvious. This one ended with Kurt's dead dog.

By 12:30, Brittany was considering catching up to Santana and talking her out of the search. By the time she'd talked herself into it, Santana's determined steps slowed to a stop. She took the rifle off her shoulder and cradled it in her arms.

Her left hand slid slowly up the barrel, like she was petting a teddy bear.

Brittany had to dive behind a mausoleum when Santana spun on her heel. Somehow, Santana didn't see her, despite her sharp eyes; she muttered something in Spanish and trudged back to the gate and her car.

Brittany peered around the corner. Santana's car peeled away into the darkness. The scent of death lingered where they'd found the dog's body.

Brittany stayed up an extra hour to scrub the stench off her skin.


	28. Rip

i don't own glee, the song used, or the movie referenced.

* * *

><p>Rays of light clawed at the sky when Brittany stepped onto the porch at dawn. She drank her own coffee this morning, from her mother's pink thermos, and watched for the LeBaron. Her chosen Glee song blared on repeat in her earbuds.<p>

Santana showed up even earlier than usual, when the horizon was just turning purple and bruised. Brittany slid into the seat, and Santana lingered to finish typing something on her phone. In the blue light from the screen, her thick makeup stood out in circles under her eyes.

"What happened last night?" Brittany asked.

Santana jerked and looked at her with suspicion for an instant before she realized what Brittany meant. "I didn't find it," she admitted. She nodded at the backseat, where her backpack sat on top of a black duffel bag. "I'll go out again tonight."

"I'll go with you."

Santana considered her for a moment, then shifted into Reverse. Brittany leaned her head against the window as they drove. "What if it's not a werewolf?" Brittany asked quietly, halfway to school.

Santana scoffed—then looked at her, serious and curious. "It is. Why wouldn't it be?"

Brittany shrugged. "They're not the only things out there."

"You don't think the full moon thing was a pretty big coincidence?"

Brittany shrugged again. She mashed her forehead against the glass. It was cool against her skin, just for a moment. Santana didn't say anything else. As they pulled into a parking space, Brittany wet her lips and said, "I'm gonna be late for practice this afternoon, I think."

Santana hit the brakes more suddenly, and they rocked in their seats as she put the car in Park. "You're braving the wrath of Sue?" Santana looked nervous. "Why?"

"I'm gonna do my Glee song." Brittany curled her fingers around the handle of her backpack, nestled between her knees.

Santana scoffed, then swallowed, then bit her lips. "Why don't you go on Thursday with me and Quinn? Mr. Schue knows you have practice."

"I just wanna get it over with," Brittany said, making her voice small. She touched the door handle and waited.

Santana hesitated, but eventually shook her head and grabbed her bag from the backseat. "If you say so," she said, guarded, as she climbed out of the car. "Sue's gonna kick your ass about it, though."

"I know."

Santana glanced at her. Uneasy. "Okay."

* * *

><p>On the field, the air turned slowly from moist to dry as the sun rose. Brittany went through the drills absentmindedly, trying to decide if she should tell Coach she would miss afternoon practice or suffer the consequences later. Knowing Coach—as Brittany was finally starting to—her punishment would be an extra hour of suicides or something, after everyone else went home. The thought wasn't so scary; at least when she was aching and puking, she wasn't thinking.<p>

"Yoo-hoo." Quinn pulled a face when Brittany snapped to attention and looked at her.

Brittany gulped. "What?"

Quinn rolled her eyes with a martyr's sigh. "You're such a space cadet, Brittany," she said, pulling Brittany by the elbow. The others were moving into formation for the first routine.

Brittany swallowed her reply. She let Quinn steer her into position. Two rows up, Santana turned away before Brittany could catch her eye.

* * *

><p>Santana came up behind her on the way inside from the field. "Are you sure about skipping?" she asked. Her voice rebounded off the metal lockers.<p>

Brittany stared at her lock and shrugged. "I want to go today." She didn't add why.

She could feel Santana looking at her strangely: trying to pick her apart. To figure her out. Eventually, when Brittany ignored it and dug through her locker for her backpack and white Under Armour, Santana turned back to her own locker and scoffed. "Suit yourself. But Sue's gonna eat you for breakfast tomorrow."

"I won't miss the whole practice," Brittany reminded her. Santana's tone was irritating. "I can handle myself," she added, stuffing her spare uniform back behind her cheer shoes. "I'm not stupid."

Santana pursed her lips. "I know you're not. I'm just _saying_—"

"I gotta go." Brittany shoved her arms through the straps of her bag and climbed onto the bench to walk behind Santana. "I'll see you later."

"Practice?"

Brittany glanced over her shoulder. "And after."

* * *

><p>Classes felt unbearable. By Spanish, Brittany found herself drawing in the margins, jagged lines that soon became the jagged wounds of Kurt's dead dog.<p>

Brittany looked up, suddenly, wondering if Kurt had come to school at all, and found the classroom half empty. Mr. Schuester caught her eye from his desk and gave her a friendly smile between the students walking past him into the hallway.

Brittany gathered her things. Noise bled into the classroom from the hall: people talking, shoes scuffing, and lockers banging shut. "Are you sure you want to perform today?" Mr. Schuester was asking.

Brittany tensed her shoulders and hugged her bookbag to her chest. "I said I did," she answered, uneasy.

He shrugged. "Okay. I just don't want you to get in trouble." His face went soft with pity.

Brittany's lip curled. "Don't worry about me," she said. "I'll be there."

She breezed past him, out into the corridor, away from his false concern.

* * *

><p>Brittany bought lunch and ducked out of line. She backtracked along the serving stations with her tray—careful not to look at the table where Quinn and Santana and sometimes Puck normally sat—and slipped back out into the emptying hallway.<p>

No one was around by the time she got to Holly's office. The door was ajar, and Brittany had just reached out to push it open when she heard Santana's sharp sigh from within. "I'm not here to talk about me."

"No, you're here to blame Quinn." Holly. Her lilt made it sound nice—but critical, in that way she had.

"It's pretty fucking suspicious."

"So are you." Holly's cheerful tone turned dark. "You'd better bring Brittany with you tonight, honey. You're on a—"

"Don't lecture me, Holly, seriously."

Santana was closer to the door. Brittany bit her lip; stepped back.

"No lecture," Holly said. "Just think about what you're doing, okay? Don't give me last year's reruns."

"Oh, what_ever_, Holly." Brittany heard Santana's hand on the doorknob. As she backed quickly down the hall, Santana's voice faded out.

Brittany jogged around the corner and blinked at the choir room, right across from her. The lights were dim, the door closed. Brittany approached carefully. No one was inside, or in the hallway. She steadied her tray in one hand and opened the door with the other.

It seemed smaller like this, with rows of empty chairs and the glossy black piano. The cover was set over its white keys, like lips drawn down to cover a sparkly white smile. Soft gray light came through the windows, filtered by the clouds outside.

Brittany set her tray across a chair in the front row. The plastic clicked together, loud in the room's heavy silence.

She stared at the piano. It shone in the gray, quiet and beautiful the way it wasn't under the flourescents. It seemed intimidating, foreboding, but Brittany took slow steps until she stood beside it. It was cool under her palm when she touched the surface. She pivoted until she faced the empty chairs, her left hand lingering on the piano as an anchor.

Nothing moved. She tried to imagine everyone in their seats. Without the Cheerios beside her, the prospect seemed a little scary.

She cleared her throat loudly and heard it bounce back to her against the hard linoleum and the walls and the chairs. "I can do this," she said softly. She winced at the sound of her voice. She sounded stupid.

If everyone else could do it, she could, too. Out of nowhere, she remembered Quinn's pinched face at the party. Brittany gulped and hummed the opening bars, to warm herself up.

She knew the words by heart, but the first verse came out tentative and quiet, the way her mother sang to the macaroni when she made dinner. Brittany tried to force her voice louder, then shied back when it sounded harsh.

By the chorus, she felt better. She smiled at her lunch tray, the way she smiled at Katie when they sang in the car, and her voice hung on the notes just right, and—

The door banged open, and Brittany flinched away from the door and into a fighting stance. She frowned.

Short Stuff. Rachel.

Rachel seemed startled. "Brittany. I didn't expect you to be in here," she said.

"Oh." Brittany relaxed, slightly. Her mind raced for an excuse. "I was just—"

"Were you practicing?" Rachel stepped forward. She sounded curious, but it was hard to tell. Brittany opened her mouth to answer, but Rachel went on: "It's very important to practice, but I honestly don't think anyone else in Glee club takes singing seriously. Aside from me, of course. Your voice is actually passable, in that nasal sort of pop music way. It's amazing how many people manage to find success in the music industry without even the faintest grasp of the basic tenets of vocal performance."

"I'm not in the music industry." Brittany fidgeted. Rachel started across the room, and Brittany crowded uneasily against the piano.

Rachel scoffed and smiled pleasantly. "Obviously not, since you're singing from your throat. That's how singers lose their voices, you know. It happens all the time." She was in front of Brittany now, trapping her with the piano at her back. "You have to sing from your diaphragm."

Rachel reached toward Brittany's stomach. Brittany swatted her hand away in alarm. "I don't see what cartography has to do with anything…"

Rachel frowned and slipped her hand against the flat of Brittany's belly. "This is your diaphragm," she chided. "You need to tense it when you sing."

Brittany shoved her hand away. "Don't touch me," she mumbled, looking at Rachel and then away.

Rachel sighed. "You're singing from here," she said, gesturing at her own throat and head. She put her palm over her chest like a soap opera star. "You need to sing from here."

Brittany twisted her lips. "Thanks," she said, uncertain if she meant it. She slid sideways against the piano and away from Rachel.

"You're welcome to stay while I practice," Rachel said when Brittany went to retrieve her tray.

Brittany headed for the door. "I have somewhere to be."

* * *

><p>Glee seemed strange without Quinn or Santana. Brittany sat nearest the door, hands twisted and crammed between her thighs, watching everyone else chat together.<p>

When Mr. Schue came in, Brittany sat stiffer in her seat and watched Rachel do the same. He reminded them of the theme—_where you are, in your life, right now_—and Brittany raised her hand an instant before Rachel.

"I need to go first," she heard herself say, "so I can get to practice."

His eyebrows went up in surprise, but he ignored Rachel's affronted gasp and beckoned Brittany up to the piano.

Normally, her uniform made her part of the group. In front of her classmates, red against the quiet dark of the piano, she stood out more than ever. Rachel stared steadily, so Brittany pinned her eyes on the narrow windows in the back as the music started and she began to sing.

Again, she felt nervous at first. But the words caught up to her. "_Just to feel the danger. I want to scream, it makes me feel alive._"

No one was booing. She imagined Santana was there, in the front row, listening. "_Is it enough to love?_" she sang to Santana's empty chair. "_Is it enough to breathe? Somebody rip my heart out and leave me here to bleed—_"

She begged, pleaded, ached out loud. She forgot the room and the people in it. She saw Santana in silhouette on the mausoleum, smelled the sweat in the dark of Santana's room, tasted the dust in the air of the graveyard. Her eyes closed, her fists clenched. Her feet rooted to the floor.

When the music began to fade, she was still whispering: "_I'd rather be anything but ordinary, please_." It slipped into the air, barely audible, when the applause began. She opened her eyes slowly to find several people standing. Even Rachel clapped with her small, tight smile.

Brittany took a deep breath, bowed awkwardly, grabbed her bag, and left for practice.

* * *

><p>After practice, Santana nearly ran to the locker room. By the time Brittany caught up, Santana was zipping her bag, ready to leave.<p>

"Santana." Brittany touched her arm. Santana stopped and looked at her, her expression dour.

"I gotta go." Santana put her bag on. "Do you need a ride?"

"What's the hurry?" Brittany watched Santana's eyes jump around the room.

"I need to follow up on that thing." Brittany waited. Santana bit her lip. "That project we're working on tonight. I need to find out where we need to go."

Brittany hesitated. Today, Santana seemed more tense than violent. But they bled into one another.

"Can I come with?"

Santana hedged. "I dunno, I mean…"

"Where were you gonna go?" Brittany shoved her things in her backpack.

Santana looked aside. "I was gonna ask Holly what she turned up."

Brittany zipped her bag and slung it over one shoulder. "I'll come," she decided, as cheerfully as possible. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>"I don't think it's a werewolf," Holly told them.<p>

Brittany fidgeted. Santana scoffed. "What else would it be?"

Holly stood up behind her desk and touched her notebook. "You might remember the little full moon detail about werewolves," she said, smiling at Santana. Her eyes glinted in the light. "Whoever our friend is has been active during the day—if you trust the weirdos investigating the gas station."

Santana shifted her weight. "But, like, it killed a dog. Classic werewolf shit."

Holly shrugged. "Hey, sweet cheeks, none of us saw it, so we don't know for sure. Maybe it's a werewolf who only got nibbled instead of bit. All I'm saying is, something's rotten in the state of Delaware."

"I don't think that's how it goes." Brittany glanced at Santana.

Santana rolled her eyes. "Thanks. Text us if you figure something out for real."

"Will do," Holly said with a grin. Santana grabbed the loop on Brittany's backpack and dragged her out into the hallway.

* * *

><p>They had already reached the parking lot by the time Santana broke the silence, saying, "Well, that was a waste of time."<p>

"Could be useful…" Brittany shrugged while Santana unlocked the doors.

They sat in silence while Santana started the car and drove out of the lot. "I'll just take you home," Santana announced. "We can meet up later to hunt."

"Patrol." Brittany frowned. "Do you have to be home for dinner?"

Santana laughed once, short and sharp, then frowned and glanced at Brittany. "No. Um, why?"

"Come over." Brittany looked her in the eye, and Santana shied immediately, her hands nervous against the wheel. "I'm serious. My mom always makes more than we eat."

Santana bit her lip, scanning the road. Her knuckles whitened. Brittany leaned her elbow on the window and propped her head on her hand. "Please?" she said softly, watching Santana hide. "I want you to."

They reached a stop sign. Santana tugged her ponytail out, ran a hand through her hair; dropped her hands in her lap, stared at them. Slower, thoughtful, she slipped the band onto her wrist and put her hand back on the wheel. "If you really want me to," she said. Her voice was tight.

"I do."

Santana licked her lips. "Okay."

* * *

><p>Santana patiently, if uncomfortably, helped Brittany entertain Katie, set the table before dinner, ate every scrap of food Brittany's mother served her, dried the dishes Brittany washed, and hovered in Brittany's room while Brittany got ready to patrol—all while managing to limit her vocabulary to <em>yes<em>, _no_, _please_, and _thank you_.

When they went back outside to the LeBaron for an early patrol, the November sun had already set. Brittany cleared her throat and said, as gently as she could, "So, Ariel, is your voice back, yet?"

Santana glanced at her, keys in hand. "What?"

"Ariel," Brittany repeated as they opened the car doors. "_The Little Mermaid_."

Santana looked blank, then shy. She pulled her door shut too hard and mumbled, "I never saw it."

Brittany's jaw dropped. "Really?" Santana shrugged. Brittany drew her knees up cross-legged on the seat. "I'll have to make you watch it. This, um, the mermaid, Ariel, she sells her voice for legs, so she can find her prince on land. But her voice is how he fell in love with her, so he doesn't know it's her, and he likes the villain until the very end."

They were near the graveyard already. Santana cleared her throat. "That's a sad story."

"Oh…" Brittany's lips squirmed. "I just meant… 'cause you were so quiet at dinner."

Santana nodded. She parked the car, quiet or thoughtful or both or something else entirely. Brittany followed her over the fence.

Santana stopped suddenly. To Brittany, she murmured, "I don't know why I came here. We don't have any leads on where this thing is…"

Brittany opened her mouth to speak and then she saw it. At the far edge of the yard, something big and furry and bipedal walked alongside the fence.

Santana was saying something.

Brittany pointed.

Santana turned, saw, and sprinted after it. Brittany followed. "Santana!" she said, unsure why she said it.

The thing turned and made a terrible noise. "Belle!" it called, as they got close. "Do you know her?"

Closer, Brittany could see its face. A man's face, half-grown into beast, with a snouted nose and lips peeled back, with coarse hair. It seemed pained where it gripped the fence. Dark red matted the fur along its chest, soaked through the torn collar of its shirt.

"Santana, it's—"

Santana leapt at it, at him, crying her war cry, stake at the ready. He flinched and swung at her, his arms long with claws at the end, thick with muscle. Santana fell heavily against a tombstone; her leg made a _crak _against the corner.

Brittany was near now, but it was speaking, he was speaking. "I need to find her," he wailed, garbled and deep. He sounded like Chewbacca on his deathbed. "It was a mistake. I love her, I need to find her! Belle!" Uncertainty froze Brittany where she stood.

"Her?" she asked.

Santana had struggled to her feet. She vaulted off the fence this time, but he was facing Brittany, and he didn't see her until she had wrapped her legs around his neck and torn him off his feet with her weight. He fell heavily and she beat his head with the butt of her stake; she let his neck absorb the blow, and his arms flailed for her aimlessly.

Someone was screaming. Brittany was screaming. "What are you doing?" she heard.

Santana was shouting at it, him, in Spanish maybe, fast and shrill, like she was about to cry, and her arm kept flying back and forth, the sound of her stake and his skull growing softer with each blow.

Brittany's face was wet—she was crying—and she grabbed at Santana's arm. Santana whirled on her, shrieking still and still in Spanish, and Brittany recoiled.

"He didn't," she gasped. "He didn't mean it. And you…"

Santana stopped just as suddenly. She unlinked her ankles and crawled away, back to the fence and up to her feet, panting heavily. Her left arm and most of her chest were dark and wet, glinting in the moonlight. The smell was awful. Brittany swallowed. "And you…"

Santana was staring at her, wide-eyed, gripping the stake so tightly her whole body shook. Her lips parted, but she didn't make a sound. They stood.

Brittany stumbled back a step.

"Brittany." Santana's voice broke. She wiped her face with her clean hand. "Brittany—"

"You killed him," Brittany stammered. "W-what gives? You fucking killed him—"

"He's a monster," Santana spat. The words came out shaky. She wiped her nose again. Her cheeks glittered wetly. "He's a fucking monster, what the fuck do you mean, 'what gives'?"

"He didn't know what he was doing," Brittany gasped. She'd gone shrill, too. Hysterical. She realized her hands were trembling. "He was just—he was trying to find her, that girl, and—"

"What?" Santana shook her head, incredulous. "He didn't know what—what the fuck, Br—"

"Didn't you hear what he was _saying_?" Brittany nearly shouted. She clapped a hand over her mouth and felt sobs starting in her lungs.

Santana shook her head and shrugged, disbelieving, helpless. "What the fuck, what he was saying? He's a fucking demon, Brittany!" She rubbed her eyes with her wrist and smeared mascara across her face. "What he says doesn't matter!"

Brittany looked down at the body: the malformed limbs and crushed skull. "He said he l-loved her," she sniffed. "That girl—Belle, or Bella, or—he said—"

"He _said_?"

"And you killed him! He was trying to talk to us!" Brittany choked and rubbed her nose on her sleeve.

Santana made a strangled sound. "So fucking what? You think"—she wiped her face again—"you think he was in love? Think again." Santana dropped her arm and looked Brittany in the eye, tears dripping from her chin. She didn't glance at the body.

Brittany's chin trembled. "I don't—"

"Brittany—" Santana shook her head and stifled a sob. "He wasn't in love, monsters don't fucking fall in love, they just—" She broke off and her eyes closed tight. Her face scrunched up. "They just find something beautiful and destroy it."


End file.
